


keep your heart off my sleeve

by ShrimpZilla



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Insecurity, M/M, Mentors, Past Child Abuse, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 08:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7611514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShrimpZilla/pseuds/ShrimpZilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quidditch is the only thing Marcus Flint has ever cared about. It's the only thing that's ever made him feel cared about. Maybe it's time Marcus opened himself up a little bit.</p><p>[rating may go up with additional chapters.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oliver Wood is only mentioned in this chapter. This is mostly dealing with Marcus trying to deal with himself and being a professional, and building a slight mentor relationship with the captain of his new team. Don't worry, the Marcus/Oliver stuff is coming! I'm just a slow builder.
> 
> Please enjoy!

After he failed his seventh year at Hogwarts and had to come back for an eighth his father stopped holding back on his opinions of Marcus’ utter inability to make him proud. It was a surprise, honestly, because it had never seemed to Marcus like his father was holding back. From a young age the man had insisted that Marcus was stupid, a failure, a disappointment. He was a waste, a troll, an utter and complete blemish on the name Flint. Being in Slytherin and making the Quidditch team, winning games and working his way to captain didn’t matter in Anthony Flint’s eyes. Marcus just wasn’t what he wanted in a son, and by the time he finally graduated Marcus realized there wasn’t anything he could do about that. It was upsetting, discouraging. He felt an unnerving sense of fear at the prospect of his future. He couldn’t stand to live a moment longer in Flint Manor, crawling the walls while his father blathered on and on about the pointlessness of Quidditch and split his time between berating Marcus’ mother and beating Marcus. He thought he might just kill the man. Wand aside, magic out of the way, just strangle him in his sleep because _what else could he do?_

Then he got the owl from the Montrose Magpies and his whole world seemed to shatter into something wider, clearer, better. They’d scouted him in his seventh year and seemed interested enough, but he hadn’t heard anything since the whole repeating a year thing. He supposed he’d just assumed they’d filled the spot they’d offered him and moved on. Like his father said: who wanted an idiot around? But it seemed Marcus’ father was wrong about that, maybe wrong about a lot of things. Because the Magpies had held his spot and were still willing to offer it if he was still willing to move out there.

And Marcus was.

The goodbye to his parents went about as well as he expected. His mother cried quietly while his father sat across the room aloof and disdainful. “Professional Quidditch player is hardly a career, Marcus. Anyone with a half a working brain knows that. You’ll play into your thirties and then what? Come moping back here, I’m certain, looking for handouts. Bah. Pathetic.” Marcus fumed, hugged his mother tighter to stop himself from doing something he might regret.

“Write to me, Marc,” his mother whispered, kissing him on the cheek and combing her fingers through his hair. He nodded.

“I will, Mum.”

“I’m proud of you,” she mouthed silently as he stepped back and gathered his trunk. He looked over once more at his father thinking, hoping that maybe the sight of this moment and the finality of it would spark something in the older man. Affection. Interest. Something. But his father didn’t look up from the paper he was reading, mouth set in a hard line, forehead furrowed aggressively. Marcus frowned and shook his head at himself for being so stupid. Then, he apparated away from his family home. Maybe for the last time. Or maybe his father was right and he’d have to come crawling back with his tail between his legs because he’d fucked up just the same way he’d always fucked up at school.

***

Marcus rented a room in a cheap little house because he figured it didn’t matter where he lived right away. Once the season started the team would be on the road as often as not. And it wasn’t as if Marcus anticipated inviting people over for tea and biscuits or anything like that. His life now was Quidditch.

The first night he couldn’t sleep. Unfamiliar bed. Unfamiliar house. Unfamiliar country. He thought about writing his mother or Pucey or Higgs, maybe check up on Montague and see what the little shit was planning on doing with the team now that Flint was gone. In the end it was all too much work to shift through the things he hadn’t unpacked searching for quill and parchment. He resigned himself to tossing and turning, falling into fitful snatches of sleep, and eventually waking up sore and disoriented.

Despite it all he was still early to the first team meeting. There were three other people in the locker room, already going over the schedule for the upcoming season. Marcus shuffled closer, suddenly feeling the weight of his sleepless night. He tried to keep his chest puffed out and his sneer solidly in place, but he found himself wavering as they all turned to look at him blankly. Three professional Quidditch players. Three of the Montrose Magpies. Three… of his teammates.

The smallest was a woman, dark haired and sharp eyed. She took a step forward and offered her hand before Marcus could even say anything. “Welcome to the Montrose Magpies, Flint. I’m—“ He grasped her hand, feeling like he could break it if he shook too hard.

“I know who you are. I know who the whole team is,” he couldn’t stop himself from saying. Aoife Raftery was the Magpies’ captain. A Chaser like him. The two men with her were also Chasers, Devan Robinson and Clarke Moore, and looked just as impressive in their casual t-shirts and shorts as they did in their full Quidditch uniforms. Marcus had memorized all their faces and names and statistics for years now, extra since the Magpies had shown an interest in him.

“All right then,” Raftery responded as she took her hand back and placed it on her hip. “So, let me break this down for you since sometimes those signing meetings aren’t clear. You’re our third reserve Chaser. You’ll attend practices and games, but you’ll be on the bench. You won’t get a chance to play a real game until you’ve been on the team for at least a year.”

“More than a year without playing?” Marcus sputtered. It was like asking him not to jerk off for a year, not to eat, not to breathe! What was even the point of being signed if it meant automatically getting benched? Raftery shrugged loosely.

“You can always hope one of us gets injured.”

“Oi, don’t tell ‘im that,” Robinson chimed in with a dramatic flailing of his arms. “He’ll bust me off me broom in practice or somethin’!” Next to him, Moore snickered. Marcus felt his face heating, a one-two punch of humiliation and fury. Did they just assume he was going to be a violent cheater? That he’d really sabotage a teammate just for a chance to play sooner? His hands fisted at his sides as the two men laughed back and forth. Marcus hated the way people sounded when they were laughing at him.

“Harsh, Robinson, harsh,” Moore commented.

“He’s from the same place she’s trained at, yeah? Raftery’s the roughest player I ever knew. If they’re even a bit alike I bet your ass I wind up face first in the grass with me shoulder bent all outta sorts.”

Marcus fought the impulse to surge forward, grab the other Chaser by his throat and throttle him into the ground. He tried to take deep breaths to calm himself, but somehow it only made him angrier. He wanted to knock his stupid teeth out, pull his stupid hair out, show him that he was playing with fire when he asked for a rough Marcus Flint.

“Take fifty laps, Robinson,” Raftery said coolly. Robinson gaped, and Marcus was reminded of the way the Weasley twins always did everything as if they were play acting in some horrible drama. It stoked the anger that hadn’t even properly gone out yet.

“Is that fifty in addition to the hundred he’s already got to do? Or is he getting a break because he’s amused you so much?” Moore asked with feigned innocence, holding up a hand as if asking a question in school. A muscle in Raftery’s jaw twitched but she stayed calm, face neutral but eyes sharp.

“It’s in addition, and you can join him because you don’t know how to mind your own business.” Robinson grumbled and started grabbing gear to head out to the practice pitch for his laps. Moore grinned at Marcus.

“I was going to tell you to mind the kind and caring captain act from her, kid, but it looks like she isn’t even putting on a show.”

“Moore.” There was the edge of a threat in Raftery’s voice. Moore put his hands up defensively and grabbed his stuff.

“Right, right. Welcome to the team, kid,” he called over his shoulder as he went to join Robinson.

Marcus blinked, hands still fisted and anger still boiling. He didn’t know what to do with it. A part of him knew he couldn’t get into fistfights with the people on his team. A part of respected these men as idols. A part of him didn’t care and wanted to smash through them for laughing at him the way they did. Raftery let out a noisy sigh and turned her attention from the door leading to the practice grounds to Marcus. He tried to school his expression into something that might’ve resembled her slightly put upon but ultimately calm face. He was pretty sure he failed.

“They’re going to dick at you for being from Hogwarts,” she started with a casualness that almost bordered on disinterest, “about how I only brought you on because I was Slytherin’s Quidditch captain when I was there.” She shrugged. “Mostly it’s in good fun, but I’m sure it’ll get annoying so I’m giving you a heads up.”

Marcus’ mouth felt dry, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking: “Did you? Recruit me just for being from Slytherin?” He wasn’t sure if he cared, and if he did how much he cared. He wanted to be drafted. Did it matter if it was because he was a good player or simply because House loyalty apparently never ended? That hot anger was still sticking in his stomach, upsetting him and making him wish he had a game coming up that he could funnel all this rage into.

“I won’t lie. It’s what made me want to look at you.” She paused and just stared at him, her eyes dark and assessing. It was a strange moment. One where Marcus wondered how much of him she was able to learn. It made him want to shiver, want to look away. He held her stare, and after the moment passed she seemed a little softer. “But I did watch you play, Flint, and that’s what tipped the scale. The cheating’s got to stop, I think that goes without saying, but I need that sort of roughness.”

“I can play rough.” Marcus grimaced slightly, but knew that going pro would mean knocking off the schoolboy tricks. There was more at stake here than House points. He could play above board. He could.

“Let’s hope,” Raftery said.

The rest of the team began to trickle in after that, and the team meeting started in earnest. Robinson and Moore rejoined at some point looking flushed but still grinning stupidly, in Marcus’ opinion, and he wondered how much of a lesson they really got from that. He tried not to focus on it, the angry feeling that still sat inside him waiting to get prickled up again at something stupid, and instead listened intently to the meeting at hand. He was a professional Quidditch player, after all, his life dream. Someone who attained their dream shouldn’t be angry, right?

***

Raftery had them practicing for months before the season started. Breaking in the new blood, she said. Getting them all back in top shape, she said. Doing what needs to be done, she said. The team grumbled, but listened, and Marcus wondered about how she didn’t yell at them or threaten them. She got her points across with simple words, straightforward looks, and sterling action. It almost made him regret the way he bullied his way through his team at Hogwarts, shoving and punching whenever he thought things weren’t going to go his way. Almost, but Hogwarts was behind him now and it wasn’t like he was going to send out a bunch of apology letters to old teammates for dealing with him.

They scrimmaged every Sunday, mixed teams of reserves and active players. Marcus appreciated the chance to fly, to play, to do more than the basic run-throughs. One Sunday Marcus knocked into the reserve Keeper while Moore was taking a shot. The Quaffle went through, but Raftery stopped the game. She called Marcus to the ground, the rest of the team doing lazy circles with their random spare moment. Marcus’ face was twisted in confused anger. Raftery brought herself right up to his chest, finger almost prodding him. It was the angriest he’d seen her in all the months of practice.

“You’re playing sloppy and you’re playing careless,” she exclaimed. “I want you running drills by yourself for the rest of the practice.” Marcus gripped broom so hard his knuckles ached.

“What—But—“ He couldn’t talk, couldn’t get his thoughts together in this moment of outrage. “I’m just doing what you said! I’m playing rough!” Raftery rocked back on her heels and crossed her arms over her chest, back in control of her outward play of emotions.

“I want it cleaner, Flint.”

“What?”

“Cleaner,” she insisted.

“I don’t know what that means,” he admitted, the familiar shame at his own stupidity rearing up as a tightness in his chest. Raftery sighed her usual noisy sigh. A sigh that was simply made to make you feel bad about yourself and what you’d done.

“Do the drills,” she said patiently. She mounted her broom and hovered a little way above him. “Pay extra close attention to me during the first game, all right? Then tell me if you can do what I’m asking.”

Marcus did the drills. He listened and he did what he was told. He liked to think he learned too, but couldn’t really be sure of that. Then, when the season finally started Marcus watched just like she said. He was trying harder at being what the Magpies wanted him to be then he’d tried at anything before in his life. Because he couldn’t fail at this, couldn’t fuck it up. He couldn’t go home again like his father predicted. This was his life now, and he wasn’t going to let it get ruined because he was a stubborn ass.

Watching Raftery made him realize how he was meant to be playing his whole life. He understood what she meant by playing cleaner too. She was smaller than him, smaller than a Chaser usually came, but she used it to her advantage. It wasn’t that she made less fouls than Marcus was used to making, it was that she made them and they went unseen. She was slick, not like Marcus who Pucey said was like a Bludger destroying everything it came in contact with. Marcus thought: I can play like that. And when he told her later after the game was won she smirked, a little twitch of the lips that was the most like a smile she ever let herself have, and told him he better.

***

The Magpies won so many games in a row that even though Marcus wasn’t playing and had been having a bit of a hard time feeling connected and making friends his chest swelled with a sense of proud accomplishment. It was a good atmosphere, the kind that surrounded winners, and it eased some of the discomfort and latent anger spawned by his uncertainty.

Then they played the Holyhead Harpies, and Raftery got caught with a Bludger in the back of the head that sent her spinning from her broom straight to the pitch. It felt like the whole stadium winced when her body hit the ground with a sickening thunk. There was a timeout while they got her taken to get medical attention, and when the game started up again Marcus couldn’t help but fist his hands and gnash his teeth. The Magpies played down a Chaser and a part of him felt if only _he_ was up there, if only _he_ could play then everything would be fine. But he couldn’t. And it wasn’t. And they lost.

The teams filed out with the most half-hearted murmurings of good game that Flint had heard since the last time he saw Oliver Wood and his gold star Gryffindors. It was a home game and after getting changed the Magpies were headed to their usual post-game haunt. It seemed more needed than ever with the loss weighing on them. A few drinks with each other and the loyal fans was just what they needed to perk them up. Instead of going immediately with the rest of them, Marcus stopped by the medical tent where Raftery was just getting ready to be let free.

“Good game,” he said, startling her enough that she jumped a little. She raised an eyebrow at him once she’d stilled again. “Your playing, I mean.” He didn’t what’d gotten into him that he wanted to make sure she was stewing over the loss. Winning was what mattered, after all, and they most certainly hadn’t won. He crossed his arms over his chest as he made himself more and more defensive.

“I could’ve been better. I should’ve been, really.” She sighed. “It’s the captain’s job to make sure we win.”

Marcus couldn’t argue, and he didn’t have the nerve to mention he’d lost plenty of games when he was captain back at Hogwarts. Didn’t seem the type of thing you spoke about with the person who held your entire future in their good or bad opinion of you.

“How’s your shoulder?” He asked, nodded towards the sling around her left arm. She shrugged her right shoulder. “Your head?”

“Fine. Just a slight concussion. I’ve had worse.” Marcus looked at the ground before figuring out what to say next. He didn’t remember making friends being so difficult back at Hogwarts. He’d just shoved Pucey and elbowed Higgs and the rest’d just fallen into place around that. Now it felt like everyone was intent on… talking to him, getting to know him and expected the same in return.

“I’ve seen you play before,” he muttered. “For the Wanderers.” When he looked up Raftery was giving him that one-sided smile.

“Oh yeah?” She sounded amused enough, probably a nice little ego boost to hear she’d recruited a fan. Marcus untensed a little and let his obsession with Quidditch run the conversation.

“I saw that match against the Wasps where you got them to drop the blatching call.” He remembered it like it was yesterday. He’d taken Higgs as a sort of gift after booting him from the team in favor of Malfoy and his rich father’s gift. Raftery got too close to the Snitch and, desperate to avoid the penalty for touching it, swerved out of the way straight into the Wasps’ Seeker. Both players had tumbled from their brooms, but Raftery managed to cling to her handle and climb back on. The argument on the call lasted longer than the foul itself, but in the end the fact that the officials could already see the black eye forming on Raftery’s face and the fact that it really and truly didn’t seem intentional it’d been allowed. The Wanderers won that game.

Raftery laughed, a low chuckle that came out through her nose.

“If you were wondering and just too polite to ask: yeah, the foul was on purpose.” Marcus smirked at that, because how couldn’t he? It was brilliant. Though he guessed it wouldn’t seem so brilliant if she hadn’t gotten away with it. “I don’t know if they talk about it at Hogwarts since it’s been a few years, but I was notorious for blatching then too. It was kind of my thing.” She shrugged her good shoulder again. “I don’t do it really anymore. It’s hard on the body.”

“And I don’t think you’d get away with it since you got ejected from that game when you played for the Kenmare Kestrals,” Marcus continued breathlessly, finally feeling a little like he was starting to belong, “against the Wanderers. Kennan insisted, said you knew it was blatching ‘cause he’d played with you. Petty sort of bloke come to think of it.”

Raftery laughed again. “He did know though. He was the Slytherin captain before me.” She leaned her head back against the pillow that was cradling her sore neck and gave Marcus a look that he thought seemed impressed. “I think you know my playing history better than I do.”

“Studied up when I got recruited. Figured you were captain. Ought to know about the captain,” he grunted, looking away as his face heated slightly. It wasn’t much of a compliment, but it was enough of one that he felt strangely defensive again. Like she was about to pat his head with one hand and slap him across the face with the other.

“You’re doing fine, Flint,” she said with a reassuring tone, as if she could read the inner turmoil he was sorting through. “Go have fun with the rest of the team. I’ve got plays to go over.”

***

Raftery’s concussion was worse than she let on. The medical team wouldn’t clear her for the next match. She stood before the team with a tight frown, glaring at them as if any of them blamed her for the mishap. It felt to Marcus like no one on the reserve team was breathing. None of the Chasers at any rate. Certainly not Marcus. He could play. He wanted to play. He deserved to play.

He thought of the way his father hadn’t acknowledged what a big deal it was to be signed right out of graduation.

He thought of the letter from his mother innocently inquiring when there would be a picture of him in the paper or the magazines.

He thought of how Quidditch was the only thing that made him feel accomplishment, pride, like he was worth more than just a last name he could never live up to anyway.

“Flint’s up,” Raftery said lightly. Before Marcus could process the relief and excitement coursing through him Gillum, one of the other reserve Chasers stood up.

“What? But he’s only been here a few months! I’ve been reserve since last season!” Marcus gripped the bench he was sitting on so tightly he could feel splinters in his fingers. Raftery turned her dark expression solely on Gillum, face a disconcerting combination of disaffected and disdain.

“I don’t care. Flint’s up.”

Marcus smiled as he saw Gillum sit down from the corner of his eye, felt hands patting him on the back as the team congratulated him. He was going to play. He was going to fucking play!

And he was going to win.

***

Marcus made every goal he was given, threw every elbow he thought he’d get away with, played with all the subtly and discipline he hadn’t even realized had been drilled into him in those off-season practices. It felt amazing. It felt liberating. It felt like he suddenly mattered again after a long period of time just spent existing.

There was a different relationship between players on the pitch and players on the bench. Whereas before the team acted like a team, the players in the air were more close knit. They respected each other in a different way than they did the players who were only players by contract. Even Robinson, who still gave Marcus a hard time about being a brute in what was only good-natured ribbing on the surface, put an arm on Marcus’ shoulder to stop him from making a fool of himself when the Magpies were called for a cobbing foul. After spending so long as captain his first instinct was to fight it himself, shout and spit even if it didn’t do anything but rile the rest of his team up into a fighting spirit. For that brief moment of instinctual anger he forgot about Raftery, sitting down on the bench with her concussion, forgot that he wasn’t captain and he had someone else whose job it was to fight those fights.

Rafterty did not disappoint.

A timeout was called when she hailed the referee down to the ground to argue against the cobbing call. Marcus was big, his arms were long, his elbows stuck out when he flew, how was he supposed to help that? He’s got to change out he flies just because he’s bigger? Just because Ali’s flying too tight against him? And once the official made it clear the foul wasn’t being repealed she proceeded to unleash a well-researched didactic argument on why cobbing shouldn’t be an officially foulable offence, anyway.

The Magpies were laughing by the time she let up, simmering pink-cheeked on the bench where the referee ordered her. Their Keeper blocked the penalty shot anyway. Robinson gave him a reassuring swat on the arm and the game went back to normal.

Normal meaning that the Magpies swept the floor with the Wanderers.

Marcus got celebrated like a hero, which made him suspect that no one on the team’d expected much from him when Raftery took the risk of putting him in. Though that was irritating the congratulations and drinks and toasts were heartily welcomed. He was four pints in when he jostled his way through the crowded pub to where Raftery was deep in conversation with the bartender. The other woman dismissed herself to do her job when she saw Marcus’ clear intentions to speak with his captain.

“Why’d you sub me in?” He blurted before he could build any sort of strategy around the question. Raftery tilted her head.

“I have a concussion.”

“But why me?” He pressed. “Because I’m a Slytherin?” Raftery’s face twitched into the slightly softer expression she sometimes wore.

“That really bothers you, huh?” Marcus didn’t say anything. He still wasn’t sure. “Look. I’m the captain. Every single thing I do, every single breath I take is with the sole purpose and intent of what’s best for this team. I didn’t put you in because I’m still bleeding green and silver. I didn’t put you in because we’re both pure bloods. I put you in because I—intimately—know how the Wanderers play and I know that Gillum and Sanders wouldn’t have provided what we needed up there today.” She was using her captain’s voice, the one she put on when she gave speeches and talks meant to rev them up and inspire them to victory. He tried not to let himself get pulled in. He’d never been one for that sort of thing, never thought it was worth the effort of coming up with all the nonsense to blather. Everyone’d always said that Wood’s were topnotch, but Marcus obviously didn’t know. Didn’t even know why he was thinking of Wood, except that he wanted to send him an owl rubbing it in his pretty boy face that Marcus’d played and won a professional Quidditch game before he had.

“Because the Wanderers’ play hard,” Marcus responded when he realized she was waiting for him to say something.

“Right.”

“Why don’t you just order the rest of the team to play the way you do? You’re the captain. You’re in charge.”

“Eh,” she was still only shrugging her right shoulder and Marcus wondered about that, “players get nervous about the line between contact and semi-contact sport up here in the professionals. No one wants to be responsible for ending someone else’s career with an injury, and I’m certainly not going to insist my guys do things that might wind them on the bench for one reason or another. So, I do it myself when I can get away with it. That way it’s only my body and my career I’m putting on the line.” Moore told Marcus that Raftery’s second year as a pro she’d pulled a stunt that’d knocked another player off his broom and shattered his hip so bad he never played again. Marcus made a note to double check Moore’s facts, though he wasn’t sure how much of what he thought tonight would make its way through the night. He hoped Raftery’s words would. “If anyone says anything about special treatment you send them to me, Flint. The most important thing is winning, not people’s feelings,” she finished with her hard, no non-sense tone.

“Right,” he said and turned back to the other Magpies just as a new chorus of _Flint, Flint, Flint_ went up. His head spun with booze and adrenaline and satisfaction.

He was fucking home, and it felt fucking good.

***

As soon as the Daily Prophet printed the story Marcus bought seven copies. The biggest picture was him roughly throwing the Quaffle passed the Wanderer’s Keeper. The article started:

_The Montrose Magpies have chosen their newest Chaser, Marcus Flint, to sub in for the injured Aoife Raftery, the team’s captain. An interesting choice. This could be a career maker for the young man, a recent Hogwarts graduate, if things continue the way the match versus the Wigtown Wanderers went. When this reporter tried to get in touch with the Magpies owner for word on how long Raftery would be benched with her injuries there was no response. Rumors are that the fall from her broom in recent match against Holyhead Harpies has done serious damage. After all, Raftery is known for playing through injuries even when advised against it. Though it seems harsh, a long-term injury would be the perfect opportunity for this new asset to truly shine._

Marcus signed six copies and sent them off to Pucey, Higgs, Montague, Bletchley, his mother, and stupid Oliver Wood—his with a mean looking scribble meant to be a mocking smiley face.

The seventh he kept for himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no Oliver. My god I'm such a slow tension builder. But have some Higgs and Pucey!

Marcus played two more games until Raftery was back on her broom. Just like the Daily Prophet said, her injury was the best thing that ever happened to him. Even though they lost one game and tied the other, Marcus’ skills were being celebrated. All the write ups for the games he played were complimentary, hopeful, encouraging. Robinson said that since Marcus was technically a reserve there’d probably be contract negotiations during the off season. He got a letter from his mother inviting him home for visits. For the first time in a long time Marcus didn’t feel like the failure it always seemed he’d be destined to be.

It was a good feeling.

He thought Raftery’d understand, being that she had that same near violent competitive drive sneaking around behind her placidness, but he kept his disappointment at her complete recovery to himself. Or he tried to. Or he meant to try to and really just wound up looking guiltily at his feet when she’d caught him cursing about it in the locker room. She gave him one of her nasal-breathed chuckles and shook her head. “Rest up, Flint,” she said and left him with two bruised knuckles from where he’d punched the lockers. Marcus didn’t know what it meant. If he’d caught any of his sniveling team hollering about how pissed they were that he was up and running he’d have kicked their asses just short of being able to never fly again. He still wondered about that special treatment nonsense.

In the end, the Magpies came in third place behind the Holyhead Harpies and the Ballycastle Bats. It wasn’t a bad season, Raftery assured the team through the clear and obvious frustration of not finishing at the top, and next year they’d just work harder. She wished them all a good, safe off season, reminded them not to anything too wild or physically taxing, and promised not to get anymore concussions before letting them disperse. There was an empty feeling in Marcus’ chest where the excitement of the season used to press. His guts felt tight and strangled. The same way he always felt leaving Hogwarts at the end of the year. Because now he had no Quidditch, he had nothing to work towards, nothing to do, and suddenly those wishes and reminders from Raftery felt like suffocating restraints.

He wanted to fight! He wanted to hurt! He wanted to do something so that he knew for sure he wasn’t just wasting his time.

For all those reasons Marcus wound up home for the holiday season.

His mother was happy the moment he appeared, actually smiling and visibly glad. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw that properly. She wrapped her arms around him, cradled his face in her hands, looked him over quickly for any scars or marks leftover from the season. He rolled his eyes and let her fuss, happy that somehow he’d made her happy and not wanting to take that from her.

“Oh, Marc!” She said, kissing his forehead when he’d leaned down far enough for her to get a hold of it. “You’re so much bigger than when you left. I was worried you would starve on your own.”

“Mum, stop,” he grumbled.

“Tell me about everything.”

“But I’ve sent letters about everything already…”

“I want to hear it from you, and more detail. Your letters are so brief.”

She dragged him to where the tea set was ready and waiting, and watched him get settled in the old plush chair before sitting down in the matching one. Marcus took the too small tea cup into his too big hands and managed to sip without spilling or breaking anything. He felt suddenly over conscious of the unruly length of his hair, the scuffs on his sneakers, the worn through quality of his casual clothes. That was the power of Flint Manor, though. It made him nothing more than a child waiting for the moment he made a mistake, a bully waiting to lash out, a man consumed by his own inadequacies.

“Did you make friends on your team?” His mother asked once she took a sip of her own tea. He wanted to grumble and shrug off the question. He wanted to frown and bare his teeth. But he could never do anything to purposefully hurt his mother. Marcus Flint was a lot of things, a lot of bad things, but he wasn’t the sort to say no to his mum.

He opened his mouth to reply, say something just about vague enough that it wasn’t a lie but that she wouldn’t concern herself over his social life, but was cut off by a sharp laugh.

“Margaery,” Anthony Flint’s voice made a shudder of revulsion run through Marcus, “do you really think that’s the sort of thing that matters? It’s supposed to be a job, isn’t it?” His mother’s face was back to its usual watery eyed frown. “Well, isn’t it, Marcus?” His father insisted. Marcus turned to look back at the man, nodding weakly and offering an affirmative murmur. “You don’t go to work in order to make friends.”

“You’re right. I was being silly,” Margaery Flint practically whispered. Marcus’ grip on his tea cup tightened into a fist, thin china shattering in his fist. His mother gasped in shock. It took everyone, even Marcus, a moment to figure out what happened. When she saw blood dribbling from the bottom of his fist Margaery jumped to her feet. “Marcus, are you hurt? Oh, sweetie.”

“Don’t coddle the fool,” Anthony snapped. Marcus nearly snapped too. Everything in him was tense and taut, desperate to launch himself across the room onto his father. “He’s an oaf. He broke a glass. There’s certainly nothing new there.”

Marcus ground his teeth to stifle a reaction.

“I’m fine,” he managed to say, pulling his hand away and standing up. “I’ll just… go wash up.” He shouldered passed his father into the hall, breath hissing loudly as he tried to block out the sound of his father’s continued scorn. Once in the bathroom he shut the door and turned on the water with a violent twist of the handle. “Don’t let him fucking get to you,” he muttered to himself as he picked shards of china from his palm. “Don’t let him fucking get to you.” Like an incantation he said it again and again, water running red and then pink over the gash.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He was frowning, teeth aching from grinding and gnashing them, forehead furrowed so that he looked about as bad as he felt. He forced himself to breathe. The Magpies’d heave him off the team without a second thought if he killed his father during the holiday season. Marcus tried to imagine Raftery’s disappointed sigh, the deeply judging weight of her eyes. He took another breath and thought about the pain of losing his one and only dream, how it would prove his father right after all that Marcus was nothing but a fuck up. He swallowed and attempted to shove his fury deep, deep down inside of him. His stomach felt cramped but the angry sweat building at the back of his neck lessened a bit. It was better than nothing.

The eggshell thin peace among the family lasted two days. Marcus spent most of that time in his room, scribbling out Quidditch plays and making plans with Pucey and Higgs to meet up early on Christmas Eve. When the third day rolled around, his mother tapped lightly on his door and told him that some of the family would be arriving soon and that he should be ready. Marcus didn’t say anything, but he didn’t growl out the curses that built up inside him either so he didn’t feel too badly about his silence.

When he'd showered and dressed and tried a hand at combing his hair into something other than a wreck he made his way to the living room. The house already smelled like Christmas. The treats and foods were being prepared, and slowly their relatives would be flooding the place. From the day before Christmas Eve to the day after Christmas. As it was, the only person in the living room was his father. He was sitting in his usual chair and reading. Marcus assumed it was the Daily Prophet, but when he took a second glance he saw glossy pages and an ad for a broom on the back cover. Despite the feeling of utter disgust that filled him with the simple proximity to his father he peered closer.

“Is that my Quaffle & Hoop magazine?” He asked accusingly. Marcus’ father lowered the Quidditch magazine that Marcus had been subscribed to since he was ten years old. Anthony Flint gave his son a long, hard stare before curling his lip and tossing the issue to the floor. Marcus stooped to pick it up, glowering up at his father with little care for being noticed. Like his mother said he was much bigger now. If the man was going to hit him then Marcus was going to hit back. “What’re you doing reading this?” He snapped, glancing through the pages and telling himself he needed to change his address on this and all the other Quidditch mags he got delivered. “You hate Quidditch.”

“Yes,” Anthony agreed, “but there was an interesting article in that one.” Marcus’ eyebrows came together and he flipped it over to its front page to see what could have caught his father’s attention. _Clarke Moore talks Montrose Magpies, Chaser lifestyles, and favoritism in Quidditch_. “Don’t hurt yourself trying to read it, Marcus.” It was too late for that though. Marcus was pawing through the pages, searching for Moore’s interview, heart thudding in a mix of panic and fury.

“Flint is young and capable and I think that’s what Aoife likes best about him,” he read aloud. “She’s been desperate to get someone with as bad a fouling history as her on the team since she took over, so I guess getting someone young and impressionable was the next best thing.” The magazine began to tear in his grasp as he continued, anger pitching his voice louder. “Flint’s definitely impressionable. A good player, no doubt, but a bit on the dim side. Not that I want to say anything bad about the kid! He’s got unrestrained skill and Aoife wants to take that and mold it so he’s just a puppet of her.” Marcus couldn’t take any more. He tore the pages out one by one, any that had Moore’s stupid name or idiot grin.

“You didn’t even get to the best part,” his father commented casually. Marcus looked at him, breathing heavy and fists shaking. “He talks about all your private, one-on-one training sessions with her.”

“What?” Marcus barked. Raftery never offered him any private training sessions. His father’s face was twisted like he’d tasted something sour.

“About how you slept your way onto the team, you moron. Did you really think that something like that wouldn’t get out?”

“I never!”

“Honestly, if your mother hears--” He thought his father was still talking, but Marcus wasn’t listening. He stormed up to his room, each footstep feeling like it was about to break the stair beneath him. He slammed his door, growled, and slammed it once again for good measure. He tore apart his childhood bedroom, every broken shelf and torn book a fantasy of Moore’s face. He wanted to write to Raftery but couldn’t calm down enough to grasp quill and paper without breaking them.

A lie. His career was going to ruined over a fucking stupid, petty lie.

 

-

 

Marcus didn’t leave his room until it was time to go and meet Pucey and Higgs. He didn’t care about seeing his family, especially not if his father planned on spending the time belittling him. He tried to imagine what would possess Moore to put something like that in the papers. It wasn’t as if Marcus’d ever done anything to him. He’d been on his best behavior with getting the team to think he wasn’t half bad. Raftery didn’t give him special treatment. He got just as many extra training sessions as the rest of them for punishments, and they were never with Raftery one on one.

“So is it true?” Higgs asked the moment Marcus walked up to them in Diagon Alley.

“Huh?” Marcus grunted. Higgs rolled his eyes as Pucey averted his, shoulders tense with the knowledge that whatever Higgs was about to say Marcus wouldn’t like. It was simultaneously a comfort to be among people whose bodies he could read so well and infuriating because he wasn’t in the mood to be annoyed by their idiocy.

“All that stuff in Quaffle & Hoop?”

“No.” Marcus shoved Higgs so that he stumbled backwards, smiling a little as if he was just as glad to be back in their old group as Marcus had been originally. Before Higgs opened his stupid mouth and reminded him that he hated these smug fuckers.

“But why would _Clarke Moore_ lie?” Higgs pressed, putting emphasis on Moore’s name as if Marcus didn’t know the man was a star player. He clenched his fists and fought the urge to break Higgs’ straight little nose. Pucey took a slight step between them. It wasn’t enough to stop anything physical, but it was enough to draw Marcus’ attention.

“Did you… tell him that stuff? Like in a locker room brag?” Pucey asked reasonably. 

“No,” Marcus growled immediately. Then the weight of what Pucey said sunk in a little and his anger lessened enough that he could see further down than just pummeling Higgs and Moore. “Shit,” he cursed, rubbing his fist against his forehead. What if Raftery read the article and thought that was what happened? That Marcus’d made up a bunch of stuff about her and him to seem like a big man? He growled again and ground his knuckles between his eyebrows, the pain a simple sensation that he could grasp onto. “No, fucking, I don’t fucking make shit up about the people I screw.”

“That’s true,” Higgs allowed with a thoughtful purse to his lips.

“Well, if you didn’t do anything then you don’t have anything to worry about. It’ll get sorted out as a misunderstanding or something,” Pucey went on. “Don’t let yourself get worked up.”

Marcus wanted to say: But what if I get kicked off the team? What if I just get kept on the bench? What if this whole year was a damned fucking waste of time?

Instead, he just sighed and nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Let’s get something to eat at the pub. Get a few drinks in you and this’ll all seem like a funny story,” Pucey assured.

“Fine,” Marcus relented though he didn’t agree wholeheartedly.

As it turned out, the drinks were not Pucey’s best idea. None of the three of them exhibited much self-control. The familiar line of “Oh, just one more” wore so thin that they’d stopped saying it all together and simply resigned themselves to missing their family parties. Not that Marcus minded that aspect of it. They were stumbling out of the pub, Higgs practically comatose while Pucey vomited all over the street, when the trouble started.

“Aye, look at these three fuckin’ fairies will ya?” Marcus closed one eye so he could focus with the other one. There was a responding cackle. He could make out two blurry shapes, standing about in front of them. “Gonna go home and suck each other off?”

“Take turns all nice and polite like?” The cackling crony seemed intent on getting a joke in. Marcus frowned. Pucey was still bent over, heaving even though nothing else seemed willing to come out. Higgs was leaning against the wall of the pub, shoulder just slightly touching Marcus’. He guessed that’s what brought the gay commentary. Fucking morons.

He shoved Higgs off of him, turned towards the strangers just as one of them was beginning a new stream of insults, and decked him across the face. A tooth cut one of his knuckles but Marcus hardly cared. He kneed the asshole in the gut and punched him again with the other fist as he was doubled over. He grabbed the blubbering man around the neck and tossed him easily into his stupid friend. Both went toppling to the street, but Marcus was too wound up, too angry, too drunk to stop there.

By the time Pucey stopped being sick and managed to get Higgs aware enough to help him drag Marcus up to his feet the two other men were a wreck. Higgs blinked, hand on Marcus’ chest as if it would keep him in place, and shook his head. Pucey took a step closer to heaped bodies, bent over for a moment and then snapped back up with a queasy look on his face. He gave Higgs a nod that no one was dead and the trio resumed their stumbling.

“Wha’ happened?” Higgs slurred after a little while of silence.

“Flint, he, uh, he,” Pucey attempted and failed to string together a coherent thought. “You know. He. Did.”

“Were calling us faggots,” Marcus supplied, anger still running hot and high through his drunkenness. “Fuck them,” he spat, literally. Higgs paused, threw an arm around Marcus so that he stopped as well, and grabbed Pucey’s scarf so they were just swaying idly in the cold night air.

“Fuck them,” he repeated, drunkenly giggling. Pucey snorted but once Higgs started he couldn’t stop and Pucey found himself joining in. Marcus glowered for a minute trying to figure out if he was somehow the butt of this joke. Once his drunk mind decided he wasn’t he began as well. All in all, he thought blearily to himself, not the worst Christmas Eve he ever had.

 

-

 

The three Slytherins spent the night at Pucey’s; Marcus on the small couch in Pucey’s room and Higgs on the floor in a nest of thrown together sheets and pillows. In the morning they all woke up hungover and cranky. Marcus’ head hurt, his stomach wobbled, and the knuckles on his right hand were swollen. Higgs cursed under his breath the whole time they took turns with the shower and apparated off without bothering with breakfast.

“You rushing off?” Pucey asked once Higgs was gone. “I bet my parents’d be glad to have you eat with us.”

“It’s Christmas, Adrian,” Marcus grumbled, headache so bad and mood so foul he slipped up and called Pucey by his first name. “Not gonna sit with your family sweating booze on Christmas.”

“Going home?” Pucey inquired as casually as possible. Drunk Marcus’d griped about his father, hating Flint manor, and the suffocating stuffiness of gatherings of his family. He felt sour about that now. He didn’t like the weakness inherent in sharing such personal things as that. Even with Higgs and Pucey, his best friends through his spotty Hogwarts career.

“Yeah.” Marcus adjusted his clothes and prepared to leave. Pucey sucked on his teeth and shrugged. There was no arguing with Marcus Flint. When he wanted something he got it, and right now he just wanted to leave.

“Well, tell your mom I say hello.”

Marcus snorted. “Said I was going home, Pucey.” The smaller man looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Back to Montrose.” He disappeared with a pop on that note so not to give Pucey the chance to respond verbally, but it didn’t stop him from seeing the grin on his friend’s face.

His mildly dramatic exit from Pucey’s was ruined by the fact that he had to go back to his parent’s house to gather his luggage. He managed to avoid seeing anyone while there, and whatever story his father concocted for his absence was good enough. Marcus was still too keyed up to deal with a family inquiry into his career, especially with Moore’s article fresh off the presses. There were notes on his door when he got back to his room in Montrose. Most of the notes were from Raftery, and Marcus’ bad mood turned worse when he saw the slim, slanted letters.

_Flint. Owl me when you get back. R._

_Flint. Owl me as soon as you get this. R._

_Flint. I’ve got to talk to you. Raftery._

_Flint. Raftery._

_Flint. Raftery._

_Flint._

He stuffed the pages in a bin and crawled into bed. He was too tired and hungover to deal with Raftery booting him from the team. He needed to sleep, to try and get some sort of game plan to convince her it was all Moore being an asshole. Besides, it was Christmas day. He assumed she was with her family which bought him some time.

He wasn't wrong because it was a few days later that Marcus woke to the sound of pounding on his door. “How many times do I have to tell you he isn’t home?” The voice of his landlord pierced his ears. The pounding at the door ceased then started again with renewed vigor. “You’re disturbing my tenants! You need to leave!” The pounding didn’t stop.

Marcus forced himself to his feet. He made sure his clothes were in place and then tore the door open just to stop the damned noise. Raftery held her hand midair, fisted, side of her it red from banging. His landlord looked between the two of them with a mouth hanging open in something like disbelief. Raftery slid into the room with an expression so cross Marcus almost wished the landlord would stay and chaperone. Instead the man disappeared from sight when Marcus closed the door.

“You get my notes?” Raftery asked, clearly looking at the trash bin overflowing with her parchment.

“Yeah,” Marcus grunted. Raftery gave a quick glance around, taking in the state of Marcus’ low effort bachelor pad, before rounding on him with the same simmering anger he saw on her face during difficult games.

“Fist fighting, Flint? Really?” She unleashed on him. It hadn't occurred to him that the incident on Christmas Eve might have gotten back to her. He wondered if that meant the two men had recognized him as a Magpies Chaser. There hadn't been a report on it in any of the papers which meant if that was the case the Magpies were pulling strings to keep it quiet. “I thought you knew better. In a pub?” Her voice hit a high note of irritation and she threw her hands up in the air. “I thought you were smarter than that.” Marcus felt his frown grow tense and angry, chest grow hot and tight. “What were you thinking?” She crossed her arms and set her hip at an angle, glaring up at him expectantly.

“He was talking shit about me and—“

“So what?” Raftery cut him off sharply. Marcus clenched his fists. He needed something to hold, something to crush, something to break because if he didn’t absolutely destroy something right now he worried he might pass out. “You’re a professional Quidditch player now. People are going to say things. They’re going to say things with the intention of getting under your skin. It’s part of your job not to let them.”

Marcus swelled up to his full size, chest out and shoulders back. His mouth set in the snarl passed down through the Flint lines.

“I don’t let people make fun of me.”

Raftery wasn’t intimidated.

“Flint.” Her brow furrowed and she let out that sigh he was already so used to hearing. She deflated slightly, shoulder sliding into a loose slope. “Marcus.” The familiarity made him uncomfortable. The sudden evenness of her voice made him suspicious. He wished she’d just yell and scream and belittle him rather than whatever understanding she was trying to draw. After all, wasn’t it this sort of thing that probably got Moore think something was going on? “Do you think the magazines and the papers are only ever going to say nice things about you?”

“No,” he relented.

“They’re going to comment on your hair, your teeth, your background, the way you look in that one awkward photo no one knew was being taken.” Marcus looked away with a growl. It shouldn’t matter that he was fucking ugly and dumb and came from a bastard of a family. He could play Quidditch with the best of them. That’s what mattered. That’s all that mattered. “Come on!” Raftery exclaimed. She uncrossed her arms and pointed a finger at him. “Do you know what The Snitching Snitch calls me? British League Quidditch’s Star Spinster. I’m twenty-eight years old.” She shook her head and pushed her bangs off her forehead while Marcus stood there stupidly trying to figure out what to say. “How am I supposed to start you this season with this hanging over you?” She muttered. Suddenly Marcus’ whole being felt like it was tied to that throwaway question.

“I’m starting this season?” He breathed, starting forward a step with his arms out as if he had the intention of shaking the answer out of her. Raftery looked at him, all still and serious like she did when she was being nothing but the captain. She looked at him and looked at him then finally nodded curtly. Marcus’ heart soared.

“Yeah, Moore got traded. I was planning on bringing your letter over personally and grabbing a pint,” she gestured towards the bin of notes, “but then this fight happened…”

“For that interview he did with Quaffle & Hoop?” Marcus asked, confidence a little more solid now that he knew the Magpies wanted him for real. Not as a reserve, but as a damned starting Chaser. Raftery gave him a shadowy frown, clearly more aimed at the article in question than Marcus himself.

“Partly.” She shrugged as if giving up. Still just that one shoulder, Marcus noticed again and wondered if it was just habit at this point or something more. “Moore likes the celebrity aspect of playing more than I liked to deal with.” She rubbed a circle into her temple as if just the memory of Moore made her irritated. “There were other things too. Nothing to concern yourself with. Puddlemere United picked him right up. I think they’re trying to turn it around this season. Lots of new faces on the roster.”

“Moore’s good,” Marcus remarked. Raftery cocked an eyebrow and pulled her arms over her chest again.

“He is.” She nodded. “So you have to be better.” Marcus nodded. That was an order he could follow. Especially if that was all it took to put the interview, the fight, the whole career ruining panic he’d set himself in behind him. “After all, I can’t have my ‘precious young protégé’ embarrassing us on the pitch. Not if I want to—what was it he said…-- mold you into a puppet.” Marcus grunted, not a really a laugh but not really not a laugh either.

“Moore’s not really your biggest fan, eh?” There was a tentative easiness building between them. Maybe that’s what Moore’d been jealous of, if the other Chaser noticed it last season. Maybe that’s why he’d said those things that could’ve forced Marcus back to his parents, his entire Quidditch resume worth nothing. Raftery gave a breathy chuckle.

“He went to one of those private academies that primarily functions to train you to be a professional Quidditch player, so when he got passed over for captain in favor of me it caused a bit of a rift in our friendship.” She said the word like the idea alone was a joke. “Also he annoyed me anyway so I don’t find it a huge loss.” 

Raftery extended her hand like she had the first day he showed up in the locker room. Marcus took it.

"Welcome to the team, Flint."

"Thought I was already on the team." Raftery grinned sharply, both side of her mouth quirked in a way he'd never seen before.

"Welcome to the _real_ team."

 

-

 

_Pucey,_

_You fucking owe me, you damn wanker, cause you’re now friends with one of the Montrose Magpies starting Chasers. No more of this Falmouth Falcons nonsense. You’re a Magpies fan or I’ll break your head._

_-Flint_

_(send this letter along to Higgs cause I don’t feel like writing two)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took me so long. my family and i went away for a mini end of summer vacay. i don't know what's going on with the first part of this. does anyone mind how much the magpies appear in this so far? i can cut them back if that's the case.  
> also,  
> oliver finally appears!

The Magpies don't work the way the Slytherin team worked. There was no Malfoy bitching and moaning about every little thing; O’Neill was quiet and vicious, a woman with a razorblade smile. There was no Pucey needling him about his methods with his friendly sort of jealousy; Robinson was silly and happy and incessantly punch-drunk. There was no Bletchley or Montague or Higgs smirking and scoffing and shirking away from Marcus’ raging temper; the Magpies were professionals despite a penchant for rowdy drinking, and Raftery’s temper never raged but seemed to simmer. It wasn’t like Marcus’d thought playing professionally would feel the same as playing at school, and he guessed the playing itself felt all about the same except for everyone being so much fucking better, but it still took getting used to. These weren’t his friends, after all, but his coworkers and even the fact that deep down he considered the Slytherin team friends was all sorts of strange for him.

He wound up closest with Robinson, outside of whatever awkward understanding was growing between him and Raftery. Moore’s article’d spurred him to pay closer attention and Marcus thought there might be something to the idea that she’d intentions of grooming him up as a protégée. Robinson seemed to just find it easiest to be friendliest to Marcus, substituting one Chaser for another now that Moore was gone, and Marcus was surprised that he hardly minded. All the things about Robinson that’d driven him crazy before—the loudness, the theatrics, the way he never flew a totally straight line—became comforts. Familiar quirks of a familiar teammate. No different than Pucey’s shuddering underhand throws or Higgs’ bad habit of ignoring his right side. Maybe Robinson and the others felt the same slow building acceptance at Marcus’ lack of tact and the fact that he spent most games cursing under and over his breath. 

“This is too much,” Robinson groused as he toweled off in the locker room after practice. Raftery’s hackles were raised with coming so close last season and Moore’s reassignment to Puddlemere. Trainings were going longer and harder. She called for double practices in the weeks leading up to their game again Puddlemere United, deeply uncomfortable with the intimate knowledge of the team that Moore undoubtedly was providing his new friends. “I leave in the morning and my old lady’s asleep. I get home at night and my old lady’s asleep. If she leaves me cause I’ve been too damned busy to do my husbandly duties I’m lodgin’ a complaint!”

“I’m sure your marriage is only the stronger for having you out of the house more often than not,” O’Neill offered which sent a wave of laughter up among the team.

“Bet your wife’s paying Raftery to keep the practices running late,” Young, one of the Beaters, remarked and offered his hand for O’Neill to slap. Allies in their casual ribbing of Robinson, the only one of all of them that Marcus thought didn’t mind being the butt of jokes. Certainly Marcus wouldn’t be able to fake pout through heady laughter if he was in the older Chaser’s position.

“Let it be known that in the event of Robinson’s wife leaving him I call first dibs,” Hughes, the other Beater, said solemnly. Young looked like he was about to argue that hypothetical notion before Robinson jumped in.

“Oi, you listen to me,” he said with mock anger as he pulled on his pants one leg at a time, “if this blasted team ruins my marriage then the only one of you ugly sons of bitches and bastards that’d have even half of a chance with my beautiful, kind, forgivin’—“ A series of groans that even Marcus participated in ceased the list. “—wife is Flint here. So the rest of you bugger off.”

Marcus glared at Robinson for a moment because he was certain this wasn’t in good fun. 

“Because we look just the same, ya see,” Robinson elaborated when the locker room didn’t seem to follow his wildly erratic train of thought. Marcus felt his face twitch into an ugly sort of look, shocked and uncomfortable at whatever friendliness this was meant to be. Robinson made a show of flexing his muscles, narrower by a mile in all respects to Marcus, until Young and Hughes started laughing hard enough Marcus thought they’d fall over. 

“That’s a hell of an insult you’re letting him off the hook on, Flint,” O’Neill said, a subtler invitation into the fun than Robinson offered. One Marcus felt more confident in taking. 

“I’m bigger,” Marcus commented as he shrugged on his shirt. Robinson chortled merrily and elbowed him in the side in a soft, tickling manner. Marcus grinned slightly to see his teammates laughing at what he hadn’t really meant to be a joke. Hughes stood up straight and gestured at his crotch, still only in his boxers and like to remain that way until he was just a moment from leaving the locker room. 

“Well, it’s not the size of the wand that counts, but rather the quality of the spells you know.” O’Neill cackled. Marcus snorted. Young punched the other Beater lightly on the bicep.

“Aye, you would say that you tiny pricked bastard,” Young said as he started buttoning his shirt with the type of delicate precision that seemed unnatural due to his large hands. Hughes gestured at his crotch again with one hand and used the other to gesture at the crotches of everyone else present.

“I’ll measure against the whole lot of you. I’ve got nothing to hide.” 

O’Neill slipped on her shoes and rolled her eyes, “We’ve all seen what you have to offer, Hughes.”

“You’ve never seen me ready—“ Marcus focused his attention on tying his shoes rather than Hughes and O’Neill’s ridiculous exchange. It was obvious to everyone—or rather, it was obvious to Marcus who assumed it must be obvious to everyone since he was notoriously slower than most—that Hughes and O’Neill were fucking. Marcus didn’t blame either of them. O’Neill was cute enough, small enough too that Hughes could probably toss her around in a fun sort of way, and Hughes was the sort of man Marcus half hated and half obsessed over since he looked like he was conjured from all the most basic sexual fantasies of anyone. Apparently small dick aside, of course.

“All right,” Raftery cut in before things devolved further and the team actually wound up measuring themselves off, “go home everyone before you make me want another shower.” She pointed sharply at Robinson who had a look on his face like he feared being blamed for the whole tone of the locker room at the moment. “Robinson, have sex with your wife tonight so Flint doesn’t have to. Can’t have him carry your weight on the pitch and off.” 

The locker room erupted again because Raftery’d been so serious lately and so short, and the joke itself was a decent one. Even Marcus found himself laughing out loud at the beyond hurt expression Robinson worked up onto his face.

***

The day of the match against Puddlemere United Marcus felt the worst combination of eagerness and dread. They were playing against the man Marcus replaced, a veteran player with awards and accolades and value. If the Magpies lost with Moore as their opposition, it would ruin them. Morale would plummet. The papers would be cruel. Raftery and the team would blame him for the failure. Not even just because he was the weak notch in the link that Moore used to occupy, but because word’d come down that Oliver fucking goody two shoes Wood was debuting as Puddlemere’s Keeper. Raftery knew that Marcus knew Wood, knew they’d played against each other for years, trusted Marcus’ notes and input and commentary about the younger man. 

If he lost to Wood here and now Marcus thought he might just lose his fucking mind. 

“Well, fuck this,” Doherty, their own Keeper, muttered under his breath as the teams took to the pitch. 

“Moore looks right at home, doesn’t he just?” Robinson pressed his shoulder against Marcus’ as he stage whispered. The contact made Marcus’ stomach clench. He was too on edge for such easy gestures. 

“Ugh,” O’Neill grumbled with disgust, “they’re just a whole team of pretty boys.”

“Pretty boy on our team here. Pretty offended,” Hughes retorted but there was nothing really to the comment. Everyone’s mind was on the game. This quiet exchange of thoughts simply something they did automatically. 

Also, O’Neill wasn’t wrong. Marcus closed his mouth around his teeth, his usual sneer forced into something less offensive and visible. Puddlemere United had more than half a team of new players and all of them looked like they’d been culled from Witch Weekly’s lists of best looking wizards. He should’ve known, shouldn’t he have? That whatever team Wood played for would wind up being the one that just on sight drove him to distraction. The sight of Wood himself, clean cut with his wide dark eyes and look of utter dedication, made Marcus clench a fist. What he wouldn’t give to punch that slim nose crooked, to mash those perfect teeth to dust, to cut his fists on the strong line of the Keeper’s cheekbones. 

Wood caught him staring, pulled a face halfway between arrogant and honest enthusiasm, and rolled his eyes when Marcus returned the gesture with a snarl. 

Raftery caught his robes right as the teams were mounting their brooms, tugged him lightly so he was close enough to catch the low words, “I’m counting on you.”

***

Montrose won by the skin of their fucking teeth. As the stadium screamed and his teammates howled, as he watched Moore’s face go dark with disdain and Wood’s with unrestrained disappointment, Marcus thought he might faint. His head spun mightily, adrenaline pounding still so hard he was damn near shaking. Raftery’s hand on his shoulder all quiet and calm grounded him even while they all still hovered comfortably on their brooms. She patted his shoulder once before Robinson swooped over and slapped the other hard enough he swore about hurting his own hand. Marcus didn’t feel he’d done any better than the two of them at scoring goals. Worse really, if he wanted to be honest with himself, because stupid fucking Wood still had him figured out for some damned reason. But he understood the importance of their win and how it meant more for his career than it might’ve for theirs. 

Because if you’d told Marcus Flint that at some point in his life he’d be replacing Clarke Moore on the Montrose Magpies and that he’d then subsequently play a match against him and win, well, Marcus probably would’ve punched your fucking teeth down your throat for daring to mock him. 

Here he was though. What a fucking world. 

***

“Guess I should be congratulating you,” Wood near shouted into his ear later while they both waited outside the bathroom of the pub. Marcus’d been content to just stand in antagonistic silence but Wood was Wood. He could smell the cinnamon style brew on the other man’s breath as he lowered his head just enough to hear. Wood was, apparently, a little drunk. The man never had taken a loss well.

“No guessing about it,” Marcus replied and took a long pull of his stout. Somewhere behind him and closer to the bar he heard Robinson’s gale of laughter. He tried to push away the strange safe feeling the noise of his team celebrating in Puddlemere’s usual hangout gave him. He guessed he was still riding high from the victory, still all on edge from facing Moore and Wood. He didn’t so much want to punch Wood’s offensive little handsome face in anymore though. Probably a move in the right direction. 

“Do ya have to be such an asshole all the time, Flint? Merlin’s sake, I’m trying to be nice here,” Wood snorted what seemed to Marcus a tad bitterly. It made him smile, tilted and grotesque he imagined since that was the only sort of honest smile he had in him. But he was too tired and too happy—and let’s face it too drunk—to give a shit about what the pretty little nancy boys of Puddlemere United thought about his crooked teeth and heavy brow. 

“You’re still as sore a loser as ever, Wood.” He took another satisfied drink of his beer as he watched Wood’s eyebrows come together and his mouth work itself into a perfect little pouting frown. 

“I don’t remember losing all that much at Hogwarts.”

“What about that time—“

“Shut your bloody mouth, Flint, cause you know that doesn’t count.”

“You don’t even know what I’m gonna say.”

“I bet I do.”

Marcus’ nostrils flared and the good warm feeling dissipated in uncomfortable heat. He pressed forward until Wood was flush against the bathroom door, their chests flush against each other. How easy it was to fall back into old, bad habits. Marcus promised Raftery there’d be no more fist fights, but he couldn’t have anticipated Wood pushing his buttons the way he was. Raftery couldn’t have expected anything else from him, she’d have to understand, Slytherin versus Gryffindor and all that. 

He shoved the hand that was holding his nearly empty beer against Wood’s shoulder. Wood bent under the pressure but straightened back right away. He had to have been standing on his toes because Marcus was hardly bending down at all and they were practically at eye level with each other. Wood stared at him with a sudden, intense heat that made Marcus’ stomach boil. He pressed his hand against Wood’s shoulder again, used his other to gather the fabric at the front of Wood’s shirt and pull on it, tugging upwards until his knuckles rested against the smooth chin of the Puddlemere Keeper. Wood didn’t move, didn’t struggle. He just stared at Marcus with his large eyes foggy with drink and how much he must’ve wanted to piss Marcus off. 

“You’re not fucking worth my time,” Marcus spat, shoving Wood back hard against the bathroom door. He moved his hands from his shoulder and shirt, and in a moment of drunken strangeness, cupped Wood’s face with them. The younger man’s face flushed dark with anger. “And I wouldn’t wanna ruin your stupid fucking face when that’s all you’ve got in your favor.”

Wood’s response was cut off by the door opening behind him. He lost his balance a little and turned swiftly, face clearly red in the much brighter light from the bathroom. The man inside exchanged places with Wood, too drunk himself to see much wrong with nearly being toppled over, and immediately began a conversation with Marcus about the match. Marcus grunted as good-naturedly as he was capable while still seething about Wood and his own full bladder. 

For the most part after that Marcus made it a point to avoid Wood, because really he didn’t want to get Raftery mad by picking a fist fight with a stupid old school rival. There was plenty to occupy his attention with. The Magpies were drunk and boisterous and Marcus liked that. Puddlemere United were generous with the rounds and Marcus liked that. The fans in the bar were flattering towards him and Marcus liked that too. At one point he had two girls dangling from his arms as he made a show of lifting them. Or rather made a show of how little it took for him to lift them. Young and Hughes exchanged money with each other – Marcus wasn’t sure which one bet against him but he made a note to find out and shove them down for their lack of faith. Robinson threw himself at Moore, jumping up and down with a good cheer not reflected in his old teammate’s face regarding the feat. Raftery rolled her eyes with an almost visible bit of affection as O’Neill whistled. And off to the side talking with an obnoxious amount of civility were Wood and Doherty, the Montrose Keeper smiling as he glanced Marcus’ way while Wood just shook his head like he was better than a bit of good fun with pretty girls.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no real notes this time. thanks to everyone who is commenting. it keeps me going!

Marcus woke the next morning with a splitting headache and taste in the back of his throat that hinted at impending vomit. He groaned and rolled himself into a sitting position, hotel room pulsing as his vision swam. On the other bed Robinson sprawled, feet on the headboard and blankets wrapped around his head, and snored stutteringly. The floor of the room was a disaster zone of discarded clothes. It’d been a long night.

  
Carefully Marcus lifted himself and made his way to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and let it warm up, sticking his head under the sink faucet to rinse his mouth and then guzzle water. When the shower was hot he climbed it, standing under the steaming water and letting it sooth his tired muscles and aching head. There were no blank spots in his memory, that he could tell anyway, so he felt no anxiety about any potential bad behavior on his part. He supposed the worst he’d done was get in that tiny shoving match with Wood and even that was nothing to remark on. No one’d seen it, no one’d gotten hurt, and Wood was as much to blame for it as Marcus was.

  
When he was washed and dried and about as clean looking as he’d get with his head still pounding and his stomach still wobbling he left the bathroom. Robinson was still passed out, loud and sweaty and reeking of the booze from the night before. Marcus frowned and rubbed his sore eyes, picking through the suitcase of clothes he never unpacked for something comfortable to throw on. His casual clothes were all wrinkled. He hadn’t folded them since he washed them. He hadn’t thought of much else but the match. But Marcus didn’t care about how he looked, that was a losing battle and one he’d given up fighting.

  
“Robinson,” he said, voice pitched just loud enough to make the other man’s snores choke off momentarily. “Want breakfast?” As soon as the snoring began again Marcus rolled his eyes and left. He had enough on his hands dealing with his own hangover without playing mother hen to Robinson.

  
Down the street from the hotel the Magpies were stationed in Marcus found a small café on the corner. The air wafting from inside was sweet and warm with a mouthwatering tang of frying meats. Marcus’ stomach made a noise that was half hunger and half trepidation. Like most times he’d felt that tingle of warning Marcus ignored it and pushed forward, head down and shoulders bent and ready for a fight. Within the tightly packed and overly crowded café no one recognized him as Marcus Flint, enemy Quidditch player. Though a part of his ego throbbed at that Marcus figured it was for the best. And that the throbbing was actually probably more to do with all the drinking than anything else.

“Flint?” A heavily accented voice behind him said incredulously. Marcus winced and turned.

“Wood?” What the fuck are you doing here?” He replied, needlessly aggressive when faced with Wood’s sleepy looking face behind him on line. The other man shrugged and gestured sloppily in a vague direction.

“I live just around the corner,” he explained. “This is where I get breakfast.”

“Oh.” Marcus blinked dumbly. “Well. Yeah.” He turned back in the proper direction and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t know how to talk to Wood in any way that wasn’t antagonistic, and being that they were both professionals and Marcus was bloody tired he just didn’t feel in the mood to try and navigate a polite conversation. Of course, Wood always seemed intent on doing the exact opposite of what Marcus wanted.

“Team got a spare day?” The Keeper asked conversationally, leaning slightly around Marcus’ side.

“Yeah,” Marcus grumbled, “you know, sightseeing or resting or whatever.” He tried to make a big show of looking over his breakfast options. Wood wasn’t dissuaded. The bastard.

“Ah, there’s nothing to see here,” he laughed and then sobered. “You could, I don’t know, come over my place if you don’t got anything else going on.” Marcus turned around again slowly. He narrowed his eyes and frowned suspiciously.

“And do what?”

“Fist fight, Flint,” Wood deadpanned. Marcus’ place in line shifted to first so he couldn’t respond. He ordered his tea and jellied scone and breakfast platter to go, paid, and hurried out onto to the street with a borderline amicable snort at Wood as he passed him. Marcus thought he must be more tired than he felt because Wood’s face at his abrupt exit looked almost disappointed. Or maybe Wood really had wanted that fist fight. Finish what they started the night before and all that.

Outside Marcus paused. He wasn’t too eager to get back to the hotel room that more than likely smelled even more of Robinson and his drunken slumber. Raftery hadn’t planned any team activities for them just given them the day to with as they pleased. Given the way everyone had behaved the night before Marcus figured it would just be a lot of sleeping Magpies. He’d gladly been one of them but he had a hard time sleeping in unfamiliar places which was why he was up and about despite everything. He could go to a park and eat or wander about and find something to do or…

Wood exited the café with his paper bag of breakfast and his cup of tea. They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment. Marcus felt caught and put out, though he couldn’t nail down a reason for why. Finally, he smirked as cheerily as possible.

“You got cards?” Wood nodded. “Something new I can beat your ass at.” Wood’s caught off guard and blindsided look subsided and his face became the familiar mask of competition that Marcus was familiar with.

“You’re on, Flint.”

 

-

 

Wood led the way to his apartment. It was further than Marcus’ hotel was, but the coolness of the fresh air was comforting. The flat itself was small, spartan, and mostly undecorated. Still, it was homier than the room Marcus was living out of and had large windows that let in bright shafts of sunlight.

“S’nice place,” he grudgingly admitted when Wood let him in. “All yours?”

“Nah, I share it with one of the reserve beaters. Works out pretty well now since he just got a new girlfriend so he’s over her place most of the time.” He set his things down on a narrow table just to the right of the entryway. Marcus followed his lead. “He probably won’t be back til much later, if at all.” Wood bounced around, opening drawers and sifting through them, with all the energy Marcus remembered from spying on the Gryffindor training sessions. The man just didn’t know how to sit still which made the prospect of playing a game of cards simultaneously interesting and horrifying.

“I dunno where some of these guys find the time for that sort of crap.” He sat down and tore open his paper bag. He took a bite of his scone, demolishing nearly the entire thing at once and chewing loudly. “Between practice and away games it just seems like a lot of hassle.” Wood slapped the pack of cards down on the table. He looked slightly put out which Marcus attributed to the fact that Wood must’ve gotten a pretty decent look at the half-chewed scone in Marcus’ mouth. Wood certainly hadn’t gotten any less prissy since joining Puddlemere.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Wood muttered as he took a sip of tea. Marcus took the cards and began shuffling them. They hadn’t agreed on a game, but that didn’t matter much. Marcus’d choose and if Wood had a problem with he’d let him know and they’d go on like that until something got settled. “You seemed to be doing pretty all right for yourself last night.” Marcus barked out a laugh.

“For fuck’s sake, Wood, it’s not like I went home with any of them.” He snorted then wiped the back of his hand across his nose. “Captain doesn’t approve of one-nighting fans anyway.” He started dealing the cards. Wood picked them up one by one as Marcus flipped them down.

“But if your captain was okay with it,” Wood needled, “you’d’ve done it?” It didn’t sound quite like any question Marcus would’ve assumed Wood’d pose him. That fact alone ruffled him straight into aggravated territory. He didn’t come of Wood’s flat for a chance for the other man to wrong foot him and get him upset. Honestly, he couldn’t remember a single time an interaction with Wood hadn’t ended up with him feeling wrong footed and upset. Marcus didn’t know how he’d managed to think this time’d be any different.

“What?” He set the remaining cards down and grabbed up his own hand, frowning down at it without really seeing what sort of hand it was. “I dunno. I guess I would’ve. I mean,” he shook his head and tried to focus on keeping his temper in check, “fuck, not last night. Wasn’t in the mood.” When he looked over Wood was staring at him with that stupid determined look on his face except in this situation all that intense focus was tunneled onto Marcus and he didn’t like it one fucking bit. Marcus threw down his hand. “What the fuck’s your deal, Wood? All these questions about my fuck life. How about you, huh? Bet you’re slipping it in all over the place.” His voice was getting louder and Marcus just knew if he didn’t stop himself soon there wouldn’t be any stopping himself at all. Fuck, he hated this. Hated his fucking temper. Hated the way Wood got nice and deep under his skin. What did any of it matter? If Wood was making fun of him, trying to imply that Marcus couldn’t get laid. Or if Wood was just even worse at making friendly conversation than Marcus was and this piss poor attempt at locker room banter was all he got. Marcus shouldn’t let it get him angry! He just fucking shouldn’t!

But he couldn’t help it around Oliver Wood.

It wasn’t that he felt self-conscious around Wood. Wood’d always been a typical handsome fellow. Marcus had come to terms with that long ago, about the same time he’d gotten around to coming to terms with the fact that he could get it up for boys as well as girls. It had more to do with the fact that even though Marcus had made it this pathetic wanker’d made it too, and hadn’t Wood been the one to wipe the floor with Marcus all those years together at Hogwarts?

“Flint, did you just compliment me?” Wood said in shocked astonishment, calling Marcus away from the darker turn of his thoughts. The slightly younger man was grinning in that self-satisfied way he always got when he blocked one of Marcus’ goals and they had a moment that felt like just the two of them in the game. Marcus rolled his eyes and gathered up his cards again. The idea that he’d ever compliment Wood was a good enough joke to quell his raging insides.

“Shut the fuck up.”

They played cards in surprisingly good spirits until Wood’s roommate came home. He looked pretty surprised to see Marcus, but didn’t say anything and excused himself to his room. For the best, Marcus thought, because it’d be a shame for all this newly found good will between he and Wood to be ruined by a stupid fucking ass running his mouth off about team loyalties.

“Should be heading out myself,” Marcus said, swiping his hands over his face and stretching. They’d been at it for a few hours at this point and Marcus needed to check in with the rest of the team. If any of them were awake anyway.

“Aye, don’t want them thinking you’ve disappeared on them,” Wood responded with a grin. He swept the remains of their periodic snacking to one side of the table, a lazy approximation of tidying up.

Marcus stood. Wood stood.

Marcus walked to the front door. Wood followed.

There was a moment where they both stood there, looking away from each other and back again, where Marcus felt suddenly and devastatingly awkward. He felt the tension between so powerful it made him want to be sick. Like every match they’d ever played against each other, every insult they’d ever thrown each other’s way, every punch and foul and nasty thought were all lined up between them on display. Marcus felt like a fucking idiot, and a part of him wanted to say that. Address it. Get the damned issue out of the way and be done with it. They were men now, weren’t they? They could put Hogwarts and all that behind them, couldn’t they? But the words didn’t come and all Marcus found he was able to do was stick his hand out.

“I won the majority,” he said in lieu of anything significant or worthwhile. Wood took his hand and shook it.

“I’m calling for a rematch next chance you get.”

Marcus worked his face into a sneer to hide his smile. Wood didn’t bother trying to hide his.

“Whatever,” Marcus scoffed and turned to leave.

“Whatever yourself, Flint,” Wood offered in a tone where Marcus could still hear the smile on his face.

 

-

 

Young was outside the hotel smoking when Marcus approached. He’d taken the same steps as Marcus and dressed himself in comfortable if not totally unpresentable clothes. The Beater offered his crumpled pack to Marcus and, despite the fact that he wasn’t really a smoker, Marcus partook. Just something to do with his hands. Just something to keep him outside. Just something to focus on that wasn’t the uncomfortable pressure in his chest and guts.

“You stay at the hotel last night?” Young asked, squinting through a cloud of his own exhaled smoke. Marcus grunted his yes and then raised an eyebrow.

“Where else would I’ve been?” Young shrugged and swatted the air between them clear.

“Figured you might’ve gone home with one of the girls pawing after you.” Marcus shook his head and Young took another drag on his cigarette. “Or that guy you were grinding on by the restrooms. I didn’t even know you went that way.” The cigarette nearly fell from Marcus’ fingers. He stared at Young, face quickly from slack with shock to red with indignation.

“What?”

“What?” Young repeated as if he couldn’t understand the source of Marcus’ angry confusion. He physically jolted when a thought struck him. “Is it a secret?” He whispered. “I haven’t said anything to anyone. I’m not like that. But no one on the team cares about that stuff.” Young added the last bit with a friendly pat on Marcus’ arm. “We’re assholes but not like any real sort of assholes.”

“I wasn’t grinding on anyone at the pub,” Marcus managed. Young was the one who looked surprised now. He flicked his cigarette away and pressed his hands into his sweatpants pockets.

“I guess I was pretty drunk, but I would’ve bet money that I saw you and some guy pressing up against each other.” The memory of him and Wood flashed hot and heavy in Marcus’ mind. His stomach rolled and his mouth went dry at the feeling. “Ah, my mistake then. I make enough of them to be able to admit it.” Young looked at him, waiting for Marcus to say something. He couldn’t tell if his face was red or he just felt hot. He took an elongated pull on the cigarette before discarding it.

“Hey,” he coughed slightly and tried to reign himself back into his normal attitude, “was it you or Hughes that bet I couldn’t lift those girls?” Things felt much more normal now that the topic wasn’t Oliver fucking Wood. Marcus was still hungover was all. Maybe even still drunk. He certainly hadn’t been pressing up against Wood for any reason other than drunken posturing. He certainly hadn’t thought about the way Wood’s muscles felt against his own or the way his lips looked when they were drawn and tense. No fucking way. Not since Hogwarts when Marcus was thinking about pretty much anyone and anything when he was wanking.

Young’d made a mistake just like he’d said.

Oliver fucking Wood.

No fucking way.

 

-

 

Things settled back into a normal routine. Marcus stopped worrying about what Young misinterpreted, about how he’d almost felt sorry for the way he’d treated Wood all those years at school, about how talking without the threat of violence between them had a little bit nicer than he would’ve thought. He went back to worrying about the regular things. The season, his stats, family drama.

It was getting easier to feel like a part of the team. He joined in on jokes about Robinson, caught Young’s eye whenever Hughes and O’Neill were being obvious, went over strategy with Doherty. He started training more with Raftery, who seemed more at ease over all since their victory against Puddlemere United.

Pucey and Higgs were visiting him, all three men crowded into the small room as they prepared to hit the streets, when an owl landed in Marcus’ narrow window. It wasn’t one he recognized. He snatched the letter from it and watched with a little confusion as it flew off without waiting for a response. Higgs reached over and took the letter from out of his hands, and when Marcus grabbed Higgs’ arm Pucey took it into his possession.

“Who’s it from?” Higgs asked even as Marcus twisted the skin of his wrist until it burned.

“I don’t recognize this handwriting,” Pucey said and had the letter out of its envelope before Marcus could manage to his hands on him.

“Does Flint have an admirer?” Higgs laughed, rubbing the red skin left in the clear pattern of Marcus’ hand.

“Don’t sound so fucking surprised,” he growled, finally getting the letter out of Pucey’s grip. It didn’t make him feel better because it was less that he’d manhandled his friend for it and more that Pucey’s volunteered it back. “My face’s all over the papers now.”

“I think that’s why I’m so surprised,” Higgs continued. He got an eyeroll from Pucey and a harsh shove from Marcus for his trouble. By the look on his face he felt it was worth it nonetheless.

“I didn’t actually look,” Pucey said, hands on his hips, “so you’ve got to say who it’s from. Unless it’s not actually from an admirer.”

“Look at his face. It’s got to be an admirer.”

Marcus glanced up from the letter and made sure his face was its usual scowl. Higgs and Pucey didn’t seem as convinced as he’d have liked. But that was Higgs and Pucey. Always acting like know it alls when it came to shit like what Marcus was actually feeling. He hated it.

“It’s from fucking Oliver Wood,” Marcus said at last. “It’s a clipping from Quidditch Monthly about the game we played against each other.” Pucey blinked and stepped closer.

“That’s it? Just a clipping?” Marcus grunted and shoved the neatly clipped magazine article into his friend’s confused face. “Oh, he signed it.” Pucey said as he smoothed the crinkles Marcus’d put into the paper. “I still don’t think I get it.”

“Were you in the market for an Oliver Wood autograph?” Higgs asked, eyebrow cocked. Marcus huffed and looked down at the envelope in his hands. Wood’s penmanship was as annoying as the rest of him. Tight and neat. If Marcus tried writing like that it’d be all a big smudge.

“It’s a bad joke. I sent him one when I debuted.”

“That’s funny, Marcus,” Pucey said with a tilted smile and a low laugh. Higgs plucked the article from his grasp and gave it a good look.

“It’s a good signature. You been practicing yours, Flint? Now that you’re famous and all that.” Marcus grabbed the autograph from Wood roughly and shoved it back into its envelope.

“Do I look like a fucking twat to you?” Higgs opened his mouth but Marcus’ glare made him shut it again. He hated to admit that it wasn’t half bad an idea on Higgs’ part. If he was going to be signing autographs then he should have a good looking autograph to give. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind and Wood’s letter to the back of his nightstand. “Are we going out or what? Why do I bother having you over?”

 

-

 

 

_Wood._   
_Very funny with the magazine clipping. Stealing my jokes just like you used to steal my plays. Typical._   
_Flint._

_Flint—_   
_I actually thought it was very clever. You’ll notice I left off the stupid frowny face. Gives it a bit more of an adult feel. And I never stole a single play from you! Maybe if you’d had any plays worth stealing it could’ve been a consideration, but I wasn’t the one spying on practices, was I? I’d say stuff like that didn’t get you very far but I guess that’s not true. Magpies are top ranked this season so far. Got you exactly where you wanted to be._   
_\--Wood_

_Flint—_   
_Seen the reviews from that game you lot played against the Wasps. I can’t believe you did that! You’re beyond lucky the referee had his back turned. That would’ve gotten you ejected for absolute certain. Better hope they don’t call the game under scrutiny since every write up I’ve seen mentions it._   
_\--Wood_

_Wood._   
_Heard you took a bludger hard in that match against Wigtown. Heard you finished the game (good on you) but that you might not play for a bit._   
_That shit with Winbourne is exactly that: shit. Their fans get too involved in the games and no one’s gonna call a foul on a fucking asshole in a stadium. I’m just trying to get it across that I think that whole buzzing crap shouldn’t be allowed. If you think that’s wrong of me then you’re an even bigger prick then I thought you were._   
_Flint._

_Flint—_   
_Are you concerned? Or is this just a way to weasel information about an opposing team? An opposing team that’s doing mighty fine this season, I might add. Whatever the case may be I’m not on medical leave. It was all blown up. You know how the journalists get sometimes. There was actual talk that I might lose a tooth but that’s all fine. Don’t worry about me._   
_As much as it pains me to say I agree about the Wasps’ fans. Very annoying._   
_Glad you didn’t get penalized. Talk to you soon._   
_\--Wood_

_Wood._   
_Merlin forbid anything happen to your bloody fucking smile. There’s no big deal about losing a tooth. Kids do it. And I lost one just last year when I smacked by face into the Keeper’s hoops during practice. Came out the back so no one really notices it anyway. But anyway. Stop being such a prissy bitch about it._   
_Good to hear you’re still active on the roster._   
_Flint._

_Flint—_   
_Don’t pay any attention to the garbage the Snitching Snitch puts out. You don’t look like you’re part troll and I highly doubt anyone is looking into your family background to discover if it’s true. Such drivel._   
_Sorry about the loss against Ballycastle. They’re a rough go._   
_Talk to you soon._   
_\--Wood_

_Wood._   
_The Magpies are throwing me a birthday party at the end of the month if you don’t have practice or anything. I know you don’t have a game since I have the schedules for all the games. But I don’t have a United practice schedule. Obviously. Anyway. You’re invited. So come. Or whatever. I don’t care. More the merrier or something._   
_Flint._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally. amirite?

Marcus felt a lingering guilt over not seeing his mother for his birthday. It was countered by a startling sense of liberation over not seeing his father. Not to be dissuaded by her disappointment Marcus still found himself drowning in unnecessary gifts. Clothes (whatever), books (boring), treats (nice), and a lovely card with a lot of sentiment that Marcus didn’t want to admit made him smile. Higgs couldn’t make the party the Magpies were orchestrating so there was a card from him as well tied around the neck of what was apparently a homemade hangover remedy. Marcus uncorked it, sniffed, and nearly gagged. He considered tossing it, but figured Higgs had always done pretty well in potions and just because it smelled like bottled rot didn’t mean much for its effectiveness. He pressed the cork back in and set it down, tossing Higgs’ card to the side so that it hung precariously off the edge of his little table without actually falling into the garbage bin. That way if Pucey, or Merlin forbid Higgs himself, saw that Marcus hadn’t trashed it immediately he could argue he hadn’t noticed it didn’t go in. He didn’t want to seem like he was going soft hearted or any bullshit like that.

He met up with Pucey for lunch and a brief stint of running errands before the party. He got his hair cut at Pucey’s insistence, something that would please his mother to no end when he finally got around to visiting her. By the time the two men made their way to the pub Marcus felt like a different person than when he left his room. Pucey’d bought him clothes too which he found irritating and far too personal and nosey a gift. Pucey’d also pressured him to change into said clothes since apparently they’d been purchased with the sole purpose of being worn as a birthday outfit. Marcus cursed about how he’d never understand Pucey, but changed anyway because it was easier that way than listening to his friend make pointed remarks for the rest of the night. Besides, Pucey probably had a better handle over what looked good than Marcus did. Because Marcus didn’t care about crap like that. It was stupid.

When he walked in the Magpies’ usual pub he had to shake his head in mock disapproval to cover up the grin that split his features. The whole place was charmed so that it lacked its usual dowdy charm, but instead was bright and festive. There were plates and bowls and dishes of snacks and foods and candy. Most importantly though there was a bar filled with his team, his friends, people who honestly wanted to make sure he had a happy birthday. It hurt his stomach a little to think about that so instead he focused on what was happening right in front of him. O’Neill was pressing a shot glass into his hand. Emotions to the back, action to the front. That’s how Marcus Flint lived his life.

“First of many,” she said simply, and Marcus respected her for that. They knocked their drinks back and he dragged Pucey from where he was standing awkwardly behind him.

“This is my mate from school,” he explained.

“Adrian,” Pucey supplied when he realized that was as much of an introduction as Marcus planned on giving.

“Magpies fan?” O’Neill asked. Pucey shrugged his shoulders.

“Uh, of course.”

“Good man.” She turned her attention back to Marcus. “You should go on and say your hellos. Robinson’s dying to introduce you to his wife, and there’s a gift floating around here somewhere for you.” Marcus nodded and gestured for Pucey to follow along.

Young and Hughes were working together, in what looked like an impending disaster, to get a cake in the shape of Marcus on his broom to hover above the desserts table. Pucey stifled his laughter so that it sounded like he was choking. Marcus stared for a moment in horror. It was a bad likeness.

“What the fuck?” He managed after he found himself staring at it for long enough. Hughes turned quickly, dropping his side of the spell for a second so the whole thing tilted dangerously. Young cursed hissingly under his breath.

“Happy birthday, you great big foul mouthed wonder,” Hughes said. He and Young released the spell and the cake settled into a mostly straight hover. Both men took turns clapping Marcus’ shoulders.

“You like it?” Young asked with a jerk of his head in the direction of the cake. Marcus geared up to tell him absolutely fucking not, but didn’t get the chance before he continued, “I made it.”

“It-… What? You made it?” Pucey’s stifled chortles redoubled at Marcus’ stumbling. Young nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. “Is it chocolate?” He asked in an attempt to skirt around the issue. It worked well enough because Young was smiling and looking altogether less defensive.

“Of course.”

“Good,” Marcus said, “I’ve got to find Raftery.” He gave the disturbing cake a final glance before turning back into the steadily growing crowd of people. Pucey grabbed onto his shoulders from behind and shook.

“You’re a real grown up now, Flint. I thought for sure you’d punch that cake through the face.”

“Can’t say it wouldn’t be an improvement,” Marcus muttered, scanning for any sight of his captain. Instead he found Robinson and Doherty bent over a table and scribbling something while a woman Marcus assumed was Robinson’s wife looked on amused. “You blokes seen Raftery?” He called out. The Keeper and the other Chaser looked up. Robinson practically threw himself into Marcus’ arms as a greeting, kissing his cheeks dramatically and already smelling like he’d been swimming in booze. Doherty gave him a simple wave for which Marcus was ungodly grateful.

“Flint! Flint, happy birthday! Have you met my wife Amalie?” He put a hand out to the woman’s head and ruffled her hair. Marcus nodded and mumbled a hello.

“I think Raftery’s by the bar,” Doherty said. “While you’re over there put a drink on Robinson’s tab before Amalie closes it down.”

“No one’s as intimidating as I thought they’d be,” Pucey said when they dismissed themselves from Doherty and the Robinsons and retraced their steps to the bar. “You’re the one that scares me most.”

“That’s cause you know I’ll beat the shit out of you if you piss me off.”

“This truly is a friendship that I treasure.”

Raftery wasn’t at the bar when they got there so he and Pucey did as Doherty told them and put a round on Robinson’s tab. Marcus figured Raftery would have to show up eventually. It was probably just that she was too short to see through the crowd. Or she was handling party issues. Or she was putting the finishing touches on something else that was bound to embarrass him.

 

-

 

It was a few drinks later when Marcus, feeling light and warm and surprisingly at ease, glanced away from his conversation with Pucey and Young and spotted Raftery. Spotted Raftery talking to Oliver Wood. He felt the warmth in his blood kick up to actual heat, felt his stomach fall slightly in a strangely heady combination of unease and anticipation, felt everything that wasn’t Raftery and Wood fall away from his attention. Wood was all eager smiles and easy admiration. Marcus figured he must’ve been as keen on having a conversation with Raftery as Marcus’d been in the beginning. Raftery had her hand on her hip, her head at a tilt, her eyebrow up as she listened and responded to whatever Wood was prattling on about.

“Is that Oliver Wood?” Pucey asked incredulously, leaning over to peer around people’s bodies until his head brushed Marcus’ arm. He shoved him back.

“Puddlemere’s Keeper?” Young sounded bewildered. “Oh, right, right. You guys all went to school together. Makes sense then.” He quickly rectified it for himself. Marcus snorted, no real sort of response but he wanted Young’s attention off Wood. He didn’t want the other man remembering that it was Wood who he’d thought he’d seen Marcus grinding with. Pucey wasn’t as simply put off. He gave Marcus a questioning look to which Marcus just shrugged his shoulders aggressively.

“Professional courtesy,” he grumbled and downed the rest of his drink so that he wouldn’t have to look at Pucey or Young or stupid, stupid Oliver Wood. When he put the glass down Young hailed the bartender to provide a refill immediately. Marcus couldn’t help but looking back at Raftery and Wood. Wood in his snug pants. Wood in his well fitted black jumper.

“Raftery!” Young shouted. “Raftery!” She looked over, Wood’s attention following hers until he was looking Marcus in the eye. His smile turned wide and toothy, happy and excited. He broke the contact for a split second, conferring with Raftery, and then both of them were walking over. Wood’s eyes on Marcus’ once again.

“You know, Wood and Flint were bitter rivals in school,” Pucey said to Young.

“Yeah?”

“Total enemies.” Marcus turned his head to look at Pucey and the look in the other Slytherin’s eye made Marcus’ look become a glare. “I can’t think of anyone Flint hated more. More than once I thought practices and matches would just wind up them two fist fighting.” Pucey’s tone was enough to tell Marcus that his friend knew something more than professional courtesy was afoot. Even though there wasn’t anything more than that. Wood was just being Wood—the goody two shoes intent on doing the right thing. And Marcus was just being Marcus—getting himself hot under the collar for no fucking reason at all.

“Flint!” Wood called, taking Marcus by both his shoulders and giving him a friendly shake. Marcus wondered if he was drunk already just by how bright and giddy he seemed. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Inviting?” Pucey repeated, that scheming tone still present. Marcus felt himself flinch. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know about that. Certainly not fucking Pucey who’d go on and tell Higgs and they two of them would never let it drop. Wood did a double take at Pucey and proceeded to let Marcus’ shoulders go. He took a step back, a little awkward and seeming smaller than he had a moment ago.

“Pucey?” He questioned. His smile wasn’t as big or exuberant as when he’d greeted Marcus but he kept it in place. Marcus gave him credit for that. Pucey certainly wasn’t high on Wood’s list of people he missed from Hogwarts list. Of course, Marcus probably should’ve been the last on that list but things seemed to have changed.

“Nice to see you and Flint have moved passed trying to discreetly break each other’s hands,” Pucey commented with enough underlying venom that Marcus shook his head at him in warning. Wood only laughed.

“We were assholes, that’s for sure.”

“Uh, Pucey this is Raftery. Captain of the Magpies,” Marcus scrambled to move the topic off of Hogwarts and him and Wood. “Raftery this is Pucey.” Pucey put his hand out.

“I was on the Slytherin Quidditch team with Marcus.”

Raftery looked between each of them briefly. She had that distant look on her face that Marcus’d come to realize meant she was listening very carefully to everything being said. She took Pucey’s hand and shook it once before crossing her arms over her chest and giving Marcus a small smile. “Lot of friends came out for you, Flint. Glad to see it.” Marcus wasn’t sure if she’d go in to hug him, wasn’t sure if he’d be okay with such a public display of friendship and affection. Instead she passed him an envelope. “It’s a gift from the team. Maybe wait to open it until tomorrow or whenever you’re sober again.”

“What is it?” Marcus asked, staring down at the envelope as if he could discern its insides with enough effort. Raftery kept up her little smirking smile.

“Something good. You deserve it.” 

“All right,” Marcus said as offhandedly as he could. He shoved the envelope into a pocket and tried to angle his head the right way so no one would see the flush in his cheeks at the idea that he deserved something good.

“Happy birthday, Marcus,” Raftery concluded. Young shot up from his seat.

“I’ve just had the best idea. Whenever someone calls Flint Marcus they’ve got to drink a drink. And Marcus too, obviously.” Raftery shook her head but Marcus could see her hiding her amusement. Pucey was laughing and ordering the first drinks (one for Young, one for Raftery, and two for Marcus). Marcus sent Wood a look, almost like a teenager embarrassed by his parents, and Wood nodded excitedly at the prospect of the game.

Or maybe at the prospect of a drunken Marcus.   

 

-

 

Young’d spread the word around the bar and things had devolved into drunken chaos after that. Robinson insisted on giving a speech as the most veteran Chaser on the team and somehow made it through saying Marcus rather than Flint only three times. Young, Hughes, and O’Neill busied themselves trying to trick the others into saying Marcus as a game within a game. Doherty would simply go “Marcus, let’s have a shot” whenever he felt it’d gone long enough without one. Pucey, tipsy and enjoying himself and used to occasionally calling Marcus by his first name, made the mix up the most frequently. Wood hadn’t said it once, and for some reason Marcus didn’t know how that made him feel.

“I’m very proud of you, Marcus, you’re my best mate and you’re really doing well and—“ Pucey rambled. Marcus cut him off.

“You’ve got to drink now. You’ve said my name again you moron.” Pucey narrowed his eyes at the pint being placed before him and the half full one he’d already been working on.

“Right, right. I’m just going to go throw up first to make some room.” He pushed himself waveringly out of his chair and went off towards the restrooms. Marcus laughed and shook his head. His face actually hurt from smiling. He supposed he was rather out of habit with it. From behind him someone slapped a small box onto the bar. Marcus jumped and turned and found himself very close to face to face with Wood.

“What’s that?” He demanded.

“It’s a gift,” Wood responded. Marcus looked over his shoulder at the box on the bar then back at Wood suspiciously.

“What for?”

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?” Marcus nodded. “It’s a birthday gift.”

“I didn’t expect a gift from you, Wood.”

“Flint,” Wood said with an exasperated sigh that didn’t mask the smile still locked into place, “I forgot how damned difficult you can be, mate.”

“I’m being nice,” Marcus insisted. “I’m saying you didn’t have to bring anything.” Wood took the box off the bar and pushed into Marcus’ hands. For some reason he had no drive to open the small gift with its shiny wrapping and Wood’s neat handwriting. He looked down at it, frowning since that was the normal set of his mouth. _To Marcus_ , it said, _From Oliver_. Marcus blinked and stared closer. “This says Marcus.”

“It does say that, Flint.”

Everything felt slow as he looked up from the gift and straight into Wood’s eyes. The younger man’s face had color high on his cheeks, from the drinking and the laughing and the lighting in the pub. Marcus watched him swallow, his throat bobbing and his lips tighten for just a second. Marcus’ stomach went hot. No, not his stomach. Lower. Fuck, his drunk mind supplied slowly, I want to kiss Oliver Wood. The hot, sinking pressure in his low stomach and hips told him it was more than a kiss he wanted. But that was too much for even his drunken mind to allow.

Oliver shifted closer, his pants brushing against Marcus’ knee. He tensed even though it wasn’t much of a sensation. But he’d just thought of Wood as Oliver instead of Wood. That made him shift and the light touch happened again. It was hard to tell in the hectic atmosphere, but Marcus thought Oliver tensed as well.

“Wood, I—“ Marcus started though he didn’t know what was about to spill out of his mouth, didn’t know which of the ridiculous thoughts in his head was about to make its way into reality. Nerves twisted his stomach. He was going to humiliate himself. Wood would reject whatever admission or invitation or flirtation Marcus put forward because, because, because look at him! Think about him! What the fuck would someone like Oliver Wood want to bother with a bastard like Marcus Flint for?

“I feel much better,” Pucey slid into his seat just in time to interrupt Marcus. Oliver stepped back, laughing in a way that was high and tense sounding. Marcus grabbed up his beer and took a drink, not daring to look at Pucey in case there was any trace of the stupidity of his attraction lingering on his face. Especially not daring to look at Wood and relive the moment of weakness all over again.

 

-

 

“Don’t date other Quidditch players,” Raftery said out of nowhere. Marcus blinked down at her from where he was happily eating the face off the cake version of himself. Hideous and malformed as it was it tasted good.

“What?”

“Don’t date other Quidditch players,” she repeated. Marcus shook his head and turned his attention back to his cake face.

“I don’t. You’ve got me confused with someone else or something.”

“That Keeper—Wood—he wants to sleep with you.” Marcus nearly choked. He looked back at her, coughing and simultaneously trying to stifle the coughing with sips of beer. The front of his shirt wound up wet, but that was the least of his worries. Raftery’d gone mad. Or was wasted. Or maybe both.

“What?” Was all he could manage.

“You’re not stupid, Flint, so quit playing it.” For some reason that tweaked Marcus’ temper. He felt himself frowning, glaring down at Raftery even though he knew she wasn’t here picking on him. “You knew that.”

“He said that to you?” Marcus didn’t know how he wanted her to answer that question. It’d be a nice relief to his confidence to hear that Wood’d said it. But Marcus didn’t like the idea of people getting an earful of his business like that either.

Raftery rolled her eyes. “No.” Marcus rolled his. “It’s obvious, Flint, so cut this out.”

“That’s just how Wood is. He’s friendly,” Marcus insisted. He huffed a breath and crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s it matter anyway? Not your business if he wants to fuck. Not your business if we do.” Raftery frowned lightly, whatever irritation he might be causing her reeled in before he could get a read on it.

“It’s bad form—“ She started calmly.

“Why’re you talking to me about this?” Marcus erupted. “O’Neill and Hughes are actually fucking. So why don’t you go lecture them about that rather than me and a pretend love life you’ve invited for me. All right?” Raftery straightened her shoulders so she was her full height. Not that it mattered much against Marcus’ height. Somehow it still managed to convey some force.

“I’ve already talked to O’Neill and Hughes about not letting their personal stuff mess up the team.”

“Just case you’re captain doesn’t mean you get to say who fuck who,” Marcus barked. A few of the people closest to them glanced over, but everyone looked too drunk to really get an idea of the type of conversation that was going on. Raftery sighed and Marcus fought against the surge of disappointment in himself that followed the noise. Instead he let it settle against his anger and make it stronger.

“I wasn’t coming to you as a captain with an order. I was coming to you as a friend with advice.” She paused, deliberating her words. “I’ve slept with, dated, whatever people on different teams than I was on. It isn’t easy and it effects the game you play. That’s the bottom line. Especially if the papers find out and—“

“You know,” Marcus sneered, blood pulsing heavy and loud in his temples, “you said Moore paid too much attention to the papers and being a celebrity, but I think you’re the one fucking obsessed with that shit more than anyone. It’s all you ever say to me. Do you even fucking realize that?” Raftery stared at him, frown falling apart as her mouth hung open slightly in unhidden shock. Again Marcus felt disappointed in himself, guilty that he’d let himself get worked up enough to shout and degrade his captain. And again Marcus used those feelings to fuel his anger until everything that wasn’t Raftery trying to control him was a black blur.

“Marcus,” she started in a low voice.

“Have a fucking drink,” he said, shoved his mostly empty glass into her hands, and stormed off.

 

-

 

“You all right?” Wood asked, appearing almost from out of nowhere. Conjured maybe from Marcus’ thoughts. Or more likely he simply followed Marcus out of the pub onto the street.

“Fine,” Marcus bit. He rubbed his face and tried to stop the sick feeling of fury in his stomach. He looked over when it was obvious Wood wasn’t leaving.

“You look a little bit like you want to punch something,” Wood said, voice wavering in a way that made it obvious his joke wasn’t a good one. Probably because it was one hundred percent true. Briefly Marcus toyed with the idea of punching Wood. It would probably feel good, go a long way to calming him down. It would have the added benefit of letting him get his hands on the Keeper. Marcus shook that thought away.

“Do I look like an idiot to you?” He asked abruptly. Wood’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Like I can’t handle my own fucking life? Like I need someone to fucking baby step me through everything?” Wood frowned a little when he realized Marcus’ question was genuine. He shook his head and took a careful step closer.

“No.”

“Well, I look that way to fucking everyone else.”

“To me you just look like a damned good Quidditch player.” Wood shrugged. “You can’t be an idiot and be the best new Chaser in the game, Marcus.” Marcus’ body went cold. Wood looked just as startled by his slip. Their eyes met and there was something deep in the back of Marcus’ mind, at the bottom of his stomach, at the center of his chest that seemed to decide that this was the fight or flight moment for him, for them. He wondered if Wood was having the very same thought. If he was weighing the pros and cons of each action to decide what was the best choice. “Marcus,” Oliver said again with that determined look in his eyes.

Marcus reached forward and grabbed Oliver by the collar of his jumper, dragged him forward like the beginning of each and every one of their old locker room brawls, and shoved their mouth’s together.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's sex and lots of cursing in this chapter so if that bothers you skip it! also, sorry it's short. writing the smut really takes it out of me lol.

It wasn’t a long kiss or a deep kiss or a particularly good kiss, Marcus reflected, and when they separated the way Oliver looked at him made Marcus take a step back. His fingers uncurled painfully slow from Oliver’s sweater. He swallowed down the taste of the other man’s saliva passed a rough, dry patch that formed in his throat.

Wood hadn’t liked the kiss. Wood hadn’t wanted the kiss. He’d only responded because it was in the moment, it was reflex. Or worse, he’d only responded because he felt bad and embarrassed for Marcus. Wood was drunk and too soft-hearted just to shove him away like the imbecile he was.

“Wood,” Marcus started, intent on telling the other man that it was a mistake, an accident, that he didn’t know what he was doing, and that if he wanted to hit him Marcus didn’t mind. But before Marcus could finish Wood’d stepped forward and slapped his hands against Marcus’ cheeks, pulling him down roughly into another kiss. Marcus’ mind reeled. He didn’t quite understand. Then Oliver’s tongue was pressing insistently against’ Marcus’ lips and he figured he could get the bigger picture later on. He grabbed Oliver’s hips, thumbs digging into hip bones as Oliver scraped his teeth against Marcus’ lower lip. “Well, that was a lot better,” Marcus said when the kiss finished. Oliver slid his hands down Marcus’ face and rested them on his shoulders. Marcus continued to hold Oliver’s hips with a surprising lack of awkwardness.

“Yeah,” Oliver laughed easily, “that first one was a bit of garbage, wasn’t it?”

“I thought you might punch me for doing it,” Marcus said with a shrug, attempting a casualness that his rolling insides didn’t feel. Oliver squeezed his shoulders and let his thumb drift across the skin of Marcus’ throat, tracing a line that wound up at his clavicle. Marcus felt his nipples go hard, his cock twitch in his pants eagerly. But the way Oliver looked at him wasn’t sensual or dirty. The way Oliver looked at him was honest and warm. Marcus didn’t know how he felt about that.

“But you did it,” Oliver breathed.

Marcus surged forward and captured the Keeper’s mouth with his own. He forced it open, with little actual resistance from Wood, and roughly caught the other man’s tongue with his own. Wood’s hands found their way into Marcus’ hair, and the way Wood’s nail felt over his scalp as his fingers tugged made Marcus regret the haircut he’d gotten earlier in the day. He let his own hands drift downwards until he had Wood’s ass sitting perfectly in his palms. He squeezed and Oliver let out a groan that made Marcus’ pants tight. He squeezed again with the same results, this time lifting Wood and spinning them around so he got him pressed up against the pub’s front wall. Wood gasped a breath as the force knocked a bit of wind from him.

“I’ve been punched by you before, Wood. Wasn’t much of a concern,” Marcus finally responded, chest heaving as he settled Oliver’s weight more comfortably between his arms and the wall.

“Oh really? And what would you do if I punched you right now for that, Flint?” Oliver laughed. Marcus smirked.

“Cum in my fucking pants.” A pause. Oliver stared at Marcus, eyebrows up and mouth hanging open just a bit. Marcus leaned in and ran his tongue along Oliver’s bottom lip. He gripped Oliver’s thighs tight and rubbed himself between the other man’s legs just enough for Wood to feel his hard on. And for Marcus to feel Wood’s. Oliver pulled Marcus’ hair again, hard enough this time to get his head at an angle that exposed Marcus’ neck. Wood latched on at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, bit down hard, and pressed his hips towards Marcus’. “Fuck,” Marcus hissed. Oliver ran his tongue along the teeth marks and up the side of Marcus’ throat. His breath was hot and moist on Marcus’ ear, and despite all his strength Marcus felt his knees trembling beneath the weight of this man and everything he represented.

“Your place, then?” Oliver whispered.

Pucey was going to have to find some other place to sleep for the night.

 

-

 

Marcus shoved Oliver onto the bed the moment the pair tumbled through the door. He chucked off his shoes, shirt, pants all in a whirlwind of movement until he was standing at the edge of his own bed in nothing but his boxers and socks. In the weak light that came in from the street Marcus saw Wood’s throat bob as his eyes intently following the cut of Marcus’ muscles, the line of his cock trapped behind thin fabric. Marcus let him stare, basking in the attention and the adrenaline feel to the surge in his confidence. He didn’t know why he’d felt so shitty about it all earlier. He was Marcus fucking Flint and when he wanted someone they wanted him fucking back.

Even Oliver fucking Wood.

“Do I have to invite into your own bed?” Oliver asked, grinning a little more wickedly than Marcus thought he had in him.

“Take your clothes off, Wood. S’not a slumber party.” But before Oliver could begin Marcus had him pressed against the mattress with his chest, mouth open hard and demanding on Wood’s, hands insistent and searching up and down Oliver’s stomach and chest. When he pulled away Oliver tried to follow his lips. Marcus pushed back to the mattress lightly, smirk wide and self-satisfied. “You’re a rude fucking houseguest, Wood. Shoes on the bed. How’re you raised?”

“Shove it, Flint, you’re the one can’t keep his hands to himself,” Wood shot back easily, but the venom between them seemed to have run its course into something far more interesting. Marcus pulled Oliver’s trainers off and tossed them one at a time over his shoulder. One hit something and knocked it over. Oliver’s eyes darted to get a look at the crash but Marcus kept his attention focused on Wood. When Oliver realized a shocked sort of attraction played in his eyes. Marcus got Oliver’s pants down to his ankles in one swift yank. He leaned down and Oliver gasped.

Marcus sucked on the sensitive skin of Oliver’s inner thigh. One of his hands pushed Wood’s boxers up higher, fingers digging into the muscle with the semblance of a massage. Beneath him Wood began to squirm, but Marcus was intent on what he was doing. He wanted Oliver. He wanted to tear him apart, wreck him, have him screaming out not only _Flint_ but _Marcus._ He gripped Wood’s cock with his free hand, feeling it jump at the sudden contact and listening to Oliver moan when he put just a hint of pressure against it. Marcus’ own cock was so hard it was close to hurting.

“I should make you beg for it,” Marcus breathed against the bruise forming on Wood’s thigh. He squeezed Oliver’s dick a little harder to hammer home his point.

“Never happen,” Oliver managed, voice catching in a way that made Marcus very certain it would happen if he played his cards right.

“All right,” he said as he pushed himself up and off Wood. Oliver watched him with wide eyes, surprised apparently that Marcus enjoyed it with a little antagonism. “Blow me,” Marcus instructed as he slipped out of his boxers.

“You’re begging me,” Wood argued, sitting up and crawling nearer to Marcus. His Quidditch roughened fingers wound their way to the back of Marcus’ neck and pulled him down into a hungry kiss. Marcus’ cock was begging now, twitching and leaking, but when Oliver pulled away Marcus just let his lips quirk in a half-smile, half-sneer.

“I’m telling you.”

“You’re asking.”

“Ordering.” Oliver grinned and began to suck on Marcus’ ear, hands drifting down his chest and back up again. Tormenting. Marcus ground his teeth to stifle the sound of any moans that might want to make their way out of his mouth. He wouldn’t give Wood the pleasure. “Oliver Wood’s good at everything he does, right?” Wood hummed into Marcus’ skin. Marcus’ hips jumped at the feeling. Not a fair play, but Marcus figured he’d have to allow it for now. “Give me the best blow job of my life, Wood. Right here, right now.” Oliver leaned back so that they could look at each other. Wood’s cheeks were flushed and his lips just a little swollen. The sight of him outlined by the street light, with his lean muscles and perfect face, sent another stab of desire straight through Marcus. Fuck, if Wood didn’t get on with it maybe he would wind up begging for it.

“Is it a lot of competition?” Wood asked even as his hand finally dropped low enough to wrap around Marcus’ cock. He huffed out a relieved breath and leaned back until his head and shoulders hit the wall.

“Yeah,” Marcus mumbled, mind ready and eager to lose itself in the pleasure of Wood’s hand slowly working him. “I like getting sucked off.” It felt like a confession, a strange and bizarre confession to Oliver Wood. Marcus glanced at him through his lashes.

“Just like you to rate them all,” he commented lightly, smile small and oddly affectionate, before lowering himself.

“Fuck you, Wood,” was all Marcus could force out when Oliver’s mouth closed around his cock and any type of rational thought quickly lost.

Wood was hot. He was so fucking hot. His wet, warm, mouth with its twisting tongue and teeth that scraped just the right amount. Marcus ran a hand along his head, short hair prickling his palm until he slipped it beneath the collar of his shirt and starting kneading the muscles of Wood’s shoulders. He’d really fucked up. Let Oliver keep his shirt on. He wanted to see the other man’s muscles, his knobs of his spine, the red lines his nails would make against his skin. Fuck, but he couldn’t focus on regrets like that, could only sit back and enjoy the sensation of Wood sucking at the tip of his cock, hand pumping over the spit slick shaft as Marcus got closer and closer to finishing. He banged his head back against the wall when Oliver did fucking something with his tongue that made Marcus moan aloud. He did it again when Oliver did it again, this time using his free hand to scratch four lines down his chest. Marcus’ hips rocked up until he could feel the back of Wood’s throat, feel it tighten as he choked a little on Marcus’ cock, feel Wood sputter and lose his rhythm at the invasion.

Marcus came grasping the back of Wood’s neck, no doubt leaving bruises the size and shape of the Chaser’s hand.

Oliver sat up as he was swallowing, tongue licking his lips even as he dabbed at them lightly with the back of his wrist.

He shoved Wood down hard enough that his body bounced up and their heads knocked together. Whatever protest or shock Wood was going to offer was lost into Marcus’ mouth as he kissed the other man as deeply as he could. Words became moans and Oliver quickly switched from pushing Marcus away to pulling him down closer, hips rocking against Marcus’ abs in a desperate bid for friction and release. Marcus wiggled a hand between them, passed the elastic of Wood’s boxer briefs, and grabbed his dick with as much force as he’d done anything else. He only had to pump five times before he felt the hot, sticky shot of Wood’s climax against his hand and stomach. Despite himself he found he didn’t really care. The sounds Wood’d made the entire time were more fascinating, more encompassing, more to Marcus’ liking than anything he could think of at the moment.

“Fuck,” Marcus sighed and rolled himself off of Wood’s body. They laid side by side, knees knocking together and elbows overlapped, in the slender double bed. Marcus wiped his hand on the sheets.

“Best one then?” Wood asked cheekily, head turned to look at Marcus as he tried to catch his breath. Marcus snorted and grinned. He nodded sleepily and let his head loll so he could look at Wood as well.

“Top notch, Oliver.” Wood raised an eyebrow and Marcus let his eyes drift shut so he wouldn’t have to look at that stupid grin any longer. “Would’ve sounded strange to say top notch, Wood, wouldn’t it’ve?” On the bed beside him he felt Oliver moving. Then he felt lips against his neck, lips that were smiling and happy and soft.

“Aye, Marcus, you’ve got a point.”

They started kissing again even though Marcus really just wanted to pass out, and Pucey was likely to drop in sooner rather than later, and Marcus wasn’t the type to do more than give a nod and grunt post orgasm. Oliver Wood was fucking Oliver Wood though, and he got what he wanted. So Marcus kissed him, with none of the mad dash roughness from earlier strangely enough since that was really the only kissing Marcus partook in, until he fell asleep.

 

-

 

“I’ve got to get a move on,” Wood’s voice penetrated Marcus’ sleepy brain. He opened an eye and glared at the Keeper. When he realized Wood was waiting for some sort of confirmation he grunted. It appeased the other man enough. “Got to get back for practice. And I’ve got to shower,” Wood continued to ramble. Marcus shut his eye again. “See ya around, Marcus.” Another grunt then Wood pressed an awkward kiss against what he could get of Marcus’ lips. He opened his eyes then and lifted his head slightly. “I think Pucey slept in the hallway, so you might wanna get him. Uh, after you clean up maybe.” Wood laughed and pressed another, better kiss to Marcus’ mouth. This time Marcus leaned in, managed to get a hand on the back of Wood’s head in an attempt at deepening it before Oliver wriggled away. “See ya around, Marcus,” he repeated and then he apparated away.

Marcus snorted and wiped a hand over his face in an attempt at waking up. He wrapped a sheet around his bottom half and stumbled over to the door. When he opened it there indeed was a passed out Pucey, and Marcus almost felt bad for it when he remembered the blow job he’d gotten and the feel of Oliver Wood’s erection in his hands and against his body. So instead he just kicked the other ex-Slytherin in the side to wake him up.

“What the actual fuck, Flint?” Pucey groaned, shambling to his feet and rubbing at a sore muscle in his neck. “Where did you disappear to? Do you realize how fucking drunk I was? I’m lucky I made it here.” He paused and looked accusingly at Marcus. “I could’ve died.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You sound like Terrence.”

“Are you naked?” Pucey eyed him suspiciously. As if they’d never seen each other naked before. As if there was any question as to Marcus’ current state of undress. Marcus busied himself looking for the hangover cure Higgs’d sent. “Who did you bring over last night, Flint?” Pucey bounced back fairly quickly, Marcus thought grumpily, back to his stupid nosey self. “If I guess are you going to hit me?” He ventured when Marcus didn’t offer anything.

“Who says I brought anyone here?” Marcus snapped.

“There’s dried cum stains on your sheets. Unless you just came home and wanked all night long.” Pucey shook his head at what was likely an unwelcome image in his head. “Please tell me you didn’t leave your own party to masturbate alone.”

“I didn’t,” Marcus huffed. Finally he found what he was looking for. Probably knocked over when he’d thrown Wood’s shoes every which way.

“So can I guess?” Pucey treaded lightly. Marcus popped the top off the vial and took a swig, making a sour face at the taste that wormed its way down his throat. He gave it a second and then he did feel better. He had to hand it to Higgs for that.

“Whatever,” Marcus responded and passed the vial to Pucey. Adrian looked at it for a moment, mind working, and Marcus sincerely didn’t know what he wanted Pucey to say. He supposed he’d just deny anyone that Pucey guessed at. But he also wanted to talk to someone about it. Pucey was his closest friend. But Pucey was also bound to try to make a big deal of it. Marcus frowned and hiked his sheet up a little higher around his hips. Once Pucey took his swig from the potion he handed it back to Marcus, crossed his arms over his chest, and said:

“You fucked Oliver Wood last night, didn’t you?” Marcus punched Pucey in the chest, not hard really but hard enough that Adrian gasped and winged about it the moment Marcus pulled his fist away.

“I didn’t fuck him.” Pucey rubbed at his sore chest.

“He fucked you?” He asked, then winced then Marcus made a fist again. “You hooked up with him then? Is that better?” Marcus grunted and started to pick up his clothes from the night before while looking for something new to wear. “Since when are you such a prick about semantics?” Pucey picked up his overnight bag and started picking out his own clothes.

“You aren’t gonna ask how it was?”

“Merlin, Flint, I don’t wanna get punched again!” Marcus dropped the sheet and started slipping on shorts and shirt. He’d shower later after Pucey left. He was still fucking tired and just wanted to relax for a while. He flopped down on his bed and looked at Pucey until the other man relented. “Fine. How was Wood in bed?”

“Just like you’d think,” Marcus responded. Pucey rolled his eyes and started changing his own clothes, muttering something about never thinking about Wood in bed. Marcus shrugged his shoulders and smirked to himself. It was a good birthday, and he guessed he deserved that much after all.


End file.
